


Things of the Past

by madmalina



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mechanic Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Nurse Ian Gallagher, Protective Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23715667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmalina/pseuds/madmalina
Summary: Ian and Mickey are a thing of the past, although...they've never really been an actual thing.Several years later, an injury sends Mickey to the hospital, which leads to a chance encounter that shakes up the lives they've both settled into.Is the past too heavy for them to overcome, or is there still a chance for them now?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 32
Kudos: 91





	1. Mickey

**Author's Note:**

> Biggest thanks to my lovely friend and beta, fckyeahgallavich! <3

It’s been a shit day so far, so the shit day getting even shittier isn’t really that surprising. Hell, actually it’s been a shit week. No, screw that. A shit couple of months. So what difference does another fucked up day make?

Bob always talks about karma, and the universe, and destiny, and shit like that. So If that asshole’s right, then Mickey probably deserves all the misery because of shit he’s done in the past. He can’t really argue with that logic. On the other hand, the universe has hated him pretty much since the day he was born, and what the hell is an infant supposed to have done to deserve everything that Mickey has gone through?

Anyway, the point is everything’s been going wrong lately, and Mickey’s just really fucking sick of it. It’s been fucking  _ weeks _ since Mickey picked up a guy who hasn’t either been a total asshole and worth a fight more than a fuck, or the just really fucking clingy, can’t-ever-take-a-goddamn hint kind of guy who’ll try to fucking  _ cuddle _ after sex and give him that really annoying wounded look when he gets up to leave right after they’re done.

So sex has been a shit show but of course that’s not all. Lately, everything Mickey touches seems to break. So far he’s had to replace several plates and coffee mugs, his phone after he dropped it in the fucking toilet (who  _ does _ that?), the television, a pair of pants that fucking ripped in the crotch area like in a bad comedy movie, and the mirror in his bathroom, because apparently the old one wasn’t built to take a direct punch, which, by the way, he only did because he was really fucking frustrated after  _ hours _ of trying to fix the faucet which just wouldn’t stop spurting water everywhere. Fucking piece of shit apartment.

So, yeah, everything’s been going  _ just great _ lately, so it shouldn’t really come as a surprise to anyone when Mickey’s hand slips at work and he rips half his forearm open on a piece of sharp metal that shouldn’t even fucking be there. That’s that on workplace safety.

And even though it’s not really surprising, it still fucking  _ hurts, _ not to mention all the blood pouring out of the wound, so nobody can really blame Mickey for the loud yell of pain he lets out.

“Yo, Mick, you okay?”

Before Mickey can think of any retort to that  _ dumb as fuck _ question, however, Rico has peeked around the car Mickey has been working on, and let out one of those really annoying, high-pitched yelps of shock.

“Mickey, you’re bleeding!”

“Yeah, no shit,” Mickey manages to grunt out through clenched teeth, because, holy fuck, that shit burns.

His overall is already half-covered in blood. Isn’t there a fucking artery in his arm, or whatever those things are called? Wouldn’t that be just like him to bleed to death in the worst piece of shit garage in the south side. What a way to go.

Of course, Rico is fucking useless, just standing there and staring at Mickey’s arm with a sort of half-shocked-half-fascinated kind of expression on his face.

Mickey himself isn’t really sure what to do in such a situation either, but shouldn’t they fucking stop the blood flow or something? His life sucks, but he’s not quite ready to go just yet. Then again, it’s not like he isn’t already gripping his arm tightly with his other hand, though he’s not sure if that’s having any effect at all, or if he’s just possibly making it even worse.

“Don’t just fucking stand there, do something!” he snaps at Rico, who kind of shakes his head a little bit as though trying to get water out of his ears.

“Like what?” he splutters, and now it seems like panic sets in behind the guy’s dark brown eyes, which is just about the last fucking thing Mickey needs right now. Why does he have to have the most useless fucking colleague in all of Chicago?

“Like...anything, I don’t care, just-”

And of course that fucker turns on his heel and fucking _ runs off, _ leaving Mickey kneeling on the floor, grasping his still violently bleeding arm, and wondering if Bob is right after all, and all the bad karma Mickey collected in his youth is now back to bite him in the ass, condemning him to a pitiful death, bleeding out on the dirty floor of a shitty garage, with not a single soul to care.

“Milkovich?”

Isn’t that just the man of the hour? Bob motherfucking Thompson, in his usual dirty white tank top and an old pair of jeans. Filthiest garage owner on the south side, storyteller, pain in the neck, and fucking believer in karma and all that shit. Mickey never thought there’d come a day when he’d be glad to see that asshole, but here it is. At least Bob doesn’t usually lose his nerve like fucking Rico.

About fucking time too. On top of the pain getting worse by the second, Mickey’s definitely starting to feel dizzy and nauseous. That can’t be a fucking good sign. God, what a piece of shit day.

“That ain’t lookin’ good,” Bob states almost matter-of-factly, kneeling down before Mickey to take a closer look, but apparently not daring to touch him,

Good thing too, because Mickey’s now really fucking close to ripping Bob’s fucking too-large bald head off with his bare hands. What kind of statement is that in the face of a possibly dying man?

“I called 911. Should be here real soon,” Bob says in a calm and reassuring voice, and now he actually does pat Mickey on the shoulder a couple of times, which sends flashes of pain down his injured arm.

The EMTs that arrive soon after thankfully don’t waste any time on useless observations or statements but go straight to work, one of them wrapping Mickey’s injured arm in tight bandages, which fucking hurts but at least it seems to reduce the blood flow (of course it’s also possible that there is simply no blood left in Mickey’s arm, but who’s being dramatic). Bob talks to the other EMT and Rico simply stands there gawking as though Mickey’s injury is some kind of fucking spectacle.

So Mickey’s torn between protesting at being loaded into the ambulance like some invalid, and being really fucking thankful for being removed both from Rico’s fascinated stare and Bob’s almost cheerful demeanor, which might be freaking him out just a little bit. In the end, it’s not his decision anyway, so he just lets the EMTs lead him on board, buckle him in like some kid, and doesn’t say another word—partly because he’s still in pain and feeling nauseous, but also because he’s never been much of a talker, not to mention that now he’s kind of overwhelmed by the fact that he might not actually be dying after all.

Of course, when they arrive at the hospital Mickey’s not seen right away—for that he’d probably have to be brought in with the piece of metal still sticking out of his chest or something—and once the doctor arrives, his nausea has even subsided a little bit and he’s almost gotten used to the pain.

His doctor’s name is Dr. Barakat, and Mickey flinches for a moment at the thought of the tantrum his dad would throw if he was ever admitted and taken care of by a Middle-Eastern woman in a niqab. However, she’s incredibly nice, as well as quick and gentle in removing the bandage and inspecting the wound, and Mickey finds himself respecting her more for not reacting at all to his tattoos and overall south side thug appearance. After all, who knows how many assholes she’s had to deal with who looked like him and acted like his dad.

Mickey’s given some pain meds, which actually make him feel quite good after a while, before the doctor starts thoroughly cleaning and stitching up the wound. It barely takes more than a couple of minutes until it’s all done, and Dr. Barakat informs him with a smile that she’ll send in a nurse to dress the wound and give him an appointment for a checkup in a week.

By the time she leaves, Mickey feels kind of as though his body and head have been wrapped in wadding, though it’s not an unpleasant feeling, maybe a little bit like getting drowsy after a couple of beers. He glances at his arm which is no longer bleeding, but neatly stitched up and catches himself thinking how fucked up it is that he had to injure his right arm and not his left, because now his tattoo is never going to look the same again.

Before he can assess the damage in detail, however, the door swings open again and somebody new enters. His nose is buried in a sheet of paper, but violently red hair is still clearly visible.

Mickey’s heart skips a beat, like that stupid thing always does when it sees somebody with that shade of hair color.

“I’m so sorry you had to wait. I was busy with another patient. But now I’m finally here, so let’s see to your wound, Mister…”

The guy’s voice trails off as he looks up into Mickey’s face, and his already milky white skin pales even more, if possible. He shoots a quick glance at the sheet of paper in his hand, clearly double-checking if he’s just imagining things, before his green eyes snap back up to Mickey’s.

“Mickey?” he asks in an almost-whisper, still apparently not entirely sure that Mickey’s not just a figment of his imagination.

Mickey opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, and doesn’t know whether all the dizziness he’s experiencing is still a side effect of the pain meds or the blood loss, or if he’s simply being knocked out by the fact that the one person he didn’t think he’d see again, the one person he’s been trying to push out of his mind for  _ years, _ is actually standing right in front of him.

Ian fucking Gallagher

* * *

_ However much Mickey tries not to stare, he just can’t help it. He has some freckles himself, but the amount of freckles on the Gallagher boy’s face is simply ridiculous. That kid is pale as a ghost, but his face looks almost tanned in the hot Chicago sun, thanks to the millions of brown dots all over his skin. _

_ Like all the boys doing community service in the hot-as-balls weather, the redhead is wearing nothing but shorts and that ridiculous yellow vest that is mandatory for all of them. The vest looks huge on the kid’s gangly limbs and the uncomfortable material causes sweat to run down all their torsos like fucking waterfalls. Mickey can see little droplets of sweat forming right above Gallagher’s upper lip, and, though he knows it's a fucking dangerous thought to have, he wants to wipe them off with his thumb. _

_ The redhead looks up from the ground, where he’s been picking up trash with one of those long pincer things, wiping the back of his hand over his sweaty face, but freezing when he catches Mickey’s eye. For a few seconds they just stare at each other, before Mickey realizes what he’s doing and allows his face to adopt his usual annoyed-ready-to-fight-you expression. Gallagher’s eyes widen a little bit at that and he quickly looks away again, focusing instead on the filthy street. _

_ The encounter, if it can be called that, doesn’t quite leave Mickey’s mind all through the couple of hours they work on cleaning the filthy south side streets—a fucking futile job, since those streets will be just as littered with trash and beer cans in a couple of days. However, he doesn’t dare let his eyes linger for as long as before, stealing only occasional glances at the redhead’s back, when there’s no way he’ll catch him looking. _

_ Mickey has no idea what it is about the Gallagher kid in particular that keeps drawing his eye—maybe it’s just that he looks fucking alien with his fire hair, pale skin, and those fucking freckles all over him—but it both annoys and unnerves him slightly. It's not like he's never felt attracted to a guy before, but until now he's been able to control it fairly well, only allowing those particular thoughts of his to come out when he's far enough away from his house and there's nobody around who knows him. Definitely not in his own fucking neighborhood and surrounded by boys who all know his family—and his dad. It’s also not as though there are never guys that catch his eye around here by being fucking obnoxious, or nerdy, or whatever, in a way that’s just asking for a beatdown. The dangerous and unnerving thing is just that he really doesn’t feel like beating up Gallagher. The kid hasn’t really done anything to annoy him, or draw his attention, and yet Mickey can’t help yearning for Gallagher to look at and notice him again, though this time definitely not to see him staring like some creep. _

_ So, since apparently Mickey's a fucking idiot who doesn't know what's good for him, he does what he does best, causing chaos, mocking everyone within a couple of yards of him, basically doing the opposite of what he's supposed to be doing right now, whenever their supervisor isn't anywhere close. It has the desired effect—at least to some extent. The general attention of the five other boys working with him is on him, some of them seemingly intimidated by his attitude, others impressed by it. Gallagher also keeps glancing at him, though for some strange reason he's a lot harder to read than all the other boys. Is that annoyance in his eyes? Or is he just bored?  _

_ The longer this goes on the more frustrated Mickey can feel himself getting. He keeps pushing harder, getting louder and more aggressive, to the point where even he finds himself fucking obnoxious, yet unable to stop.  _

_ "Wow, look, it's you, Gallagher!" he proclaims loudly as he uses his own pincer thing to pick up a really fucking nasty used tampon from under a bush, the tip all red with dried blood.  _

_ It's not his best joke, but the other boys roar with laughter and amused disgust—except the redhead, whose face turns a shade of red quite reminiscent of his hair.  _

_ "Shut up," he mutters, though it doesn't sound very threatening.  _

_ "All right, guess you'll be 'tampon' from now on, Gallagher."  _

_ The boys laugh again at Sampson's words (one of the older boys and one who's clearly trying to impress Mickey for some dumb reason), and Mickey can't help but grin at his own genius idea, as he drops the disgusting item in question into his trash bag.  _

_ From that moment on, the redhead jokes are unleashed.  _

_ It's fun. More fun than Mickey has had in days, no, fucking weeks in the shit show that is his life currently, and it's a great distraction, just allowing himself to go with it, to flaunt his great talent for the creation of nicknames. He's unstoppable.  _

_ Carrot top, matchstick, gingerbread, freckle face, copper head, candle, firetruck—every new name Mickey brings up causes the group of boys to erupt with laughter and Mickey's good spirits to soar, which is something that rarely happens lately.  _

_ It goes on like this until Clyde, their douchebag of a supervisor, collects their trash bags, gloves, and everything else, and tells them to be back at the same time tomorrow.  _

_ The boys scatter, some of them clapping Mickey on the back, though Mickey notices Gallagher isn't one of them.  _

_ He waves the other boys off, then turns around to look for the redhead, spotting him already a few hundred yards away.  _

_ Something dangerous, or stupid, or both, makes Mickey hurry after him, and Mickey's mind hasn't quite been able to catch up and prevent him from doing something monumentally dumb, before he calls out for the other boy to wait.  _

_ "Hey, Gallagher!"  _

_ The redhead doesn't react at all, perhaps he even speeds up a little bit.  _

_ "Gallagher, wait up!" Mickey yells more loudly, but once again, he's ignored.  _

_ That, despite all his internal doubts about what the fuck he’s doing, annoys the hell out of him. _

_ “Yo, firecrotch!” Mickey yells even more loudly, which finally seems to have done the trick, since Gallagher stops and turns around, though only to fix him with a defiant expression. _

_ Mickey’s not even sure where that nickname came from, but he does know that he sure as fuck shouldn't be wondering if  _ the carpet matches the drapes _ as they say. _

_ “My name’s Ian,” the kid says pointedly as Mickey catches up to him, his chin jutting out in a way that almost makes Mickey laugh. _

_ “Fuck do I care,” Mickey retorts, and maybe it’s not the cleverest thing he’s ever said, but the way the redhead rolls his eyes still bothers him for some reason. _

_ "What the fuck do you want?" the kid asks accompanied by something that sounds very much like an exasperated sigh.  _

_ That really shouldn't make the corners of Mickey's mouth twitch, but it does. So dramatic.  _

_ "Nothing," Mickey shrugs, and he's aware that that's a very dumb answer considering the way he yelled for the redhead to wait for him.  _

_ Gallagher seems to think the same thing, since he simply rolls his eyes again, and turns to continue walking in the same direction as previously.  _

_ Mickey finds himself falling into step next to him, a weird sense of adventure falling over him, overriding his nerves. The two of them walk in silence beside each other for a while, exactly in the opposite direction of Mickey's house, but fuck that place anyway. Any excuse he'll get for showing up later in that dump, he'll take. And it's not like he's doing anything other than talk to and walk with the guy. He'll be fine. It'll be fine.  _

_ Mickey can sense the redhead getting more tense beside him with each step they take, until he suddenly comes to a halt again and faces Mickey, his lips pressed tight, brows drawn together in obvious frustration.  _

_ "Seriously, what the fuck do you want from me, Mickey?"  _

_ "What—" _

_ "You make fun of me all fucking day, get a good laugh in with your buddies, and now you're gonna what? Follow me home to see where the freak lives or what?"  _

_ He looks seriously pissed right now, his fists clenched by his sides, his teeth showing, and…are those tears in his eyes?  _

_ Still, Mickey can't quite follow.  _

_ "The fuck are you talking—"  _

_ Gallagher lets out a humorless laugh.  _

_ "Copper head? Firecrotch? Fucking  _ tampon? _ “  _

_ His voice rises higher with each term he lists.  _

_ "Yeah, aren't you just fucking hilarious, Mickey Milkovich? A real fucking comedian. Just please leave me the fuck alone with your shit."  _

_ And he turns again, to stomp away, but Mickey stops him by grabbing hold of his forearm, which—fuck—feels like touching fucking fire, so he let's go again really quickly. However, Ian still stops and doesn't attempt to run anymore, looking at Mickey instead with a confused expression on his freckled face.  _

_ "Those were just…fucking jokes, man. Nothing serious, just…jokes."  _

_ Mickey's spluttering, and he hates it when that happens. It only ever does usually when he's faced with his dad's fury after he's fucked up something.  _

_ Ian swallows visibly.  _

_ "Real fucking funny, Mickey," he says again, though he seems more nervous than angry now.  _

_ Mickey can see Ian's left hand twitching to the point on his right forearm where Mickey grabbed him moments before. He wonders briefly whether he hurt him, before he shuts that thought off.  _

_ "I ain't got nothing against red hair, man," Mickey says quickly, shaking his head. "It was just a joke, really. A dumb fucking joke." _

_ Ian doesn't say anything to that, he just stares at Mickey with an unreadable expression on his face.  _

_ "It's actually…kinda cool," Mickey hears himself saying, and he can't help wondering where the fuck that came from.  _

_ Ian's eyes drift over Mickey's face after that for a few moments, as though trying to detect a lie, and Mickey's this fucking close to ask him what the fuck he's looking at, when the redhead looks away again, his eyes now focused on the filthy road, shaking his head slightly and muttering "Whatever." _

_ "Like…actual...fire" _

_ Mickey has no idea who or what the fuck has taken over him, causing him to speak those dumb as fuck words. He's not an idiot, even though a lot of people seem to think he is, but he's definitely looking like one right now.  _

_ Ian clearly seems to think so because he gives Mickey an odd look before he snorts, shaking his head with a small grin on his face.  _

_ "Yeah, all right."  _

_ But the look he's giving Mickey now is miles away from the way he looked at him before. He's actually smiling, and it's not a bad kind of smile.  _

_ It makes Mickey want to make him do it again.  _

_ "Honestly though, you're like a match that's been lit, and that's not a bad thing."  _

_ "You're a dumbass," Ian mutters, grinning to himself, and usually Mickey would give anyone a good beating for saying so, but it doesn't sound like it's meant as an insult. It actually sounds rather…affectionate, and Mickey has no idea what to do with that. But it feels fucking good, that's for sure.  _

_ "Yeah, 'cause you're a fucking genius, carrot stick," is all he can think of, but it seems to be all right, since Ian laughs loudly for the first time.  _

_ "All right, all right," he says, still chuckling. "I guess I'll see you genius tomorrow then, Mickey?"  _

_ And where usually Mickey would have shot back something derisive or sarcastic about that being fucking obvious or not his choice or whatever, he just finds himself nodding.  _

_ "See ya, Gallagher."  _

_ He watches the redhead turn with a silly little wave that makes him smile in spite of himself, then walk away until he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, and only then does Mickey shake his head a little. It feels a little bit as though coming out of a trance, and not in a good way. For a moment there, during some playful banter with a boy he's only met two days ago, doing court-ordered community service hours, he's felt lighter than he's felt in months, or perhaps, ever.  _

_ Now, though, it's all coming back to him, his whole fucked up situation, and everything he hates about his life, it's all still there, all still suffocating him, and he no longer has an excuse to put it off.  _

_ Groaning, kicking an empty beer can as he goes, he turns around and slowly starts walking back in the direction he came from.  _

_ There's a longing to just turn again and run after Ian, spend the evening in the redhead's company instead. Just hanging with the guy, laughing about stuff, and calling each other dumbasses sounds a lot more alluring than the prospect of going home and facing his…yeah.  _

_ Funny how it only took a few moments to break the ice, and get him and Ian to a point where they're…friendly? Cordial? If that's what they are, which would be all right — and safe, nothing weird or suspicious about that, only…however fucking stupid and reckless that makes him, Mickey already knows it's sure as fuck not all he wants from Ian.  _

_ And shit. When the fuck did Gallagher become Ian? _

_ * * * _

"Ian," says Mickey finally after a too-long pause in which neither of them said a word. He hates how breathless he sounds. But maybe he can blame at least part of his behavior on the pain meds. 

"Yeah, hi," Ian responds with a nervous sounding chuckle. "Wow, I was too busy to check the name, so I didn't realize it was you. Otherwise I would have…"

His voice trails off and Mickey can see a familiar tinge of pink beginning to paint his neck and cheeks. 

He looks different, but still great. What once was all gangly limbs, now seems to be mostly muscle. His shoulders are broader too, and his face has become more chiseled, the jaw even more prominent than before. Mickey feels a slight pang of disappointment when he notices the lack of dark freckles on Ian's cheeks and nose, before he immediately internally scolds himself for his reaction. 

It's not like Ian's face or freckles concern him in any way. Ian's not his, so he shouldn't even think about that. In fact, Ian's never really been  _ his, _ so all of this is just fucking ridiculous. 

And what's with what Ian just said? If he'd known it was Mickey in here he would have…what? Would have avoided this room like the plague? Would have sent someone else to take care of his bandages? 

Mickey can sense his defenses rising almost in spite of himself. Fuck this shit. He didn't  _ choose _ to hurt himself, get sent here, and meet Ian of all people. This is not his fucking fault. It's not like he set this up in order to force Ian to talk to him. He's not that pathetic. 

Ian clears his throat, looking really embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Mickey has half a mind to just get up and leave without a fucking bandage. 

But before he can actually move, Ian speaks again. 

"So, um…shall we do this?" 

Mickey's not sure he won't say something stupid if he started talking now, so he just nods, figuring he'll just get it over with and then leave and never look back. 

Ian gets all the supplies he needs, then sits down on a stool in front of Mickey and gets to work. 

The first time Ian's fingers touch his arm, Mickey flinches in spite of himself, and Ian pauses, determinedly staring at the wound in front of him and not Mickey's face. There's an uncomfortable moment in which neither of them move, before Ian takes hold of Mickey's arm again very gently, proceeding to once again clean the stitches. 

"So how did this happen?" he asks, his eyes still fixed on Mickey's arm, his fingers working gently but efficiently. 

Mickey hesitates for a moment. He really doesn't feel like doing small talk with Ian, and his flight response has already been activated, but on the other hand there's no reason for him to be a complete asshole. Even if that's exactly what Ian still thinks of him. 

"Work accident," he replies shortly, and he's actually quite satisfied with how neutral his voice sounds. 

Ian hums at that, but he still doesn't look up, now unrolling some bandages and getting the scissors. "What do you do?" 

"Mechanic," Mickey replies, before he adds "in a garage." 

Ian does look up at that, bandages loosely in his hand. For a moment his eyes trail over Mickey's face. 

"Suits you," he says then, in a not unfriendly tone, before he gets back to work, carefully dressing Mickey's injured arm. 

Mickey doesn't respond to that, since he has no idea how, but it doesn't seem like Ian expects him to anyway. Within a minute Ian is done and putting away the roll and scissors. His back is still turned when he speaks again. 

"You also need an appointment, right?" 

Mickey just hums. It doesn't feel like there are any words left for him to speak. 

"Next week, Thursday at 8AM?" Ian asks, now checking the computer and still not turning in Mickey's direction. 

Mickey hums again. That's early enough for him to still make it work with the garage—if Bob will allow him back in so soon. But who is he kidding. Bob needs all the hands he can get, injured or not. 

Ian scribbles something down, then there's a noise of ripping paper, and finally he turns around, handing Mickey a note with the time and date of his appointment. 

"Okay then," he says awkwardly. "Take care, don't overwork your arm, and I guess I'll see you next week." 

It sounds almost like a question, like Ian's asking for permission to stay away when Mickey comes, and it pisses Mickey off. 

Mickey just nods again, still not trusting himself to speak. As he turns to leave, he catches a glance of Ian's now bright pink face, then it's gone, and so is Mickey from the room. 

He walks down two more corridors before he allows himself to stop, lean back against the wall, close his eyes, and take a few deep, calming breaths. 

If that isn't fucking typical. Ian fucking Gallagher, appearing out of nowhere, and forcing Mickey to deal with parts of himself that he'd rather keep hidden and forgotten. 


	2. Ian

Ian can't stop thinking about it.

He can’t help feeling as though he’s done something wrong, insulted Mickey in some way, because surely Mickey doesn’t have a reason to still be pissed at him for something that happened more than eight years ago. Especially since it was Mickey who fucked up then.

Then there's the fact that Ian's traitorous mind seems to continuously want to snap back to the fact that  _ Mickey wasn't wearing a ring, _ and the implications of that. Ian's had to constantly remind himself that that's absolutely none of his business, which isn't so easy when the thought alone seems to make his heart beat twice as fast. 

Ian's been hardly able to concentrate on his work, or anything really, after Mickey left, which was three days ago. And the people around him have started noticing, which sucks because he really can't afford showing "odd" behavior, or everyone will think he's off his meds or already well on the way to losing his marbles. 

He's had to have an extra checkup at work, during which his psychiatrist made him provide his sleep schedule, answer way more questions than normal, and recount almost his entire history with Mickey before she deemed him still fit to work. After that he's had to deal with Amy, his colleague, who he usually gets along with just fine, being all apologetic about reporting him. It's not like he can blame her, they've all got to be sure they can rely on him after all, but he still preferred to avoid her ever since because he really can't deal with the awkward and apologetic glances she shoots his way. 

It sucks, but at least he's certified sane for now at work, which he'd give anything for at home. 

Debbie isn't so bad, she barely cares about what's going on at home anymore anyway, and Carl has never really been annoying when it came to Ian's health. Liam is too young to do more than shoot him calculating glances, and Fiona is barely there either since she declared herself independent and moved into her apartment building. So it would all be good if it weren't for Lip. 

Lip's just stopped drinking again a week ago (for the third time in six months). Ian is happy for him and proud of his determination, but he absolutely hates that Lip's new focus, the one thing he truly obsesses over in order to keep his mind off of alcohol, is Ian's health. 

For a week now, Lip has been on Ian's ass about eating well, about taking his meds, about sleeping enough, which would be nice if Lip didn't phrase everything like a goddamn accusation, and also if it wasn't so damn clear that he's not doing it for Ian's sake, but to keep himself occupied. 

Since Ian's encounter with Mickey, and his subsequent constant pondering, it's gotten even worse, although that may be partly due to the fact that Ian's tolerance for any kind of bullshit has lowered significantly. 

If he could just keep overthinking what happened with Mickey in peace, that would be great, thank you very much. 

But Lip has never been particularly sensitive to other people's needs or emotions. Ian loves his brother, he really does, but as much as he loves him, he'd really like to punch him in the face sometimes. 

"You seem off lately. You sure you've been taking your meds?" 

Ian closes his eyes where he's standing at the kitchen counter, taking a few deep breaths in order to calm himself. He keeps telling himself Lip doesn't mean anything by it, but it gets harder and harder to not snap at his brother when he repeats the same questions over and over again. 

"Yes, I've been taking them. Never missed a dose in two years, as I've told you only a couple hours ago."

He hates that he's sounding like a petulant child, when that's exactly how Lip keeps treating him. 

Lip raises his hands in a placating gesture, which does nothing to lessen Ian's annoyance. 

"Just worried about you, man. I've seen you go through hell 'cause none of us were quick enough to get you help. Still feeling like shit about that. Just want my little brother to be safe."

He sounds earnest, and there's definitely regret, perhaps even a hint of guilt, in his eyes, and Ian can feel his anger dissipate in spite of himself. Fucking hell, he's never been good at holding a grudge against Lip. Probably part of the Irish twin package. 

Ian takes a few tentative steps toward the kitchen table, then sinks into the chair next to his brother with a sigh. 

Lip gives a soft chuckle at that. 

"That bad, huh? Tough times at work?" 

"Yeah…no…I don't know." 

Ian's not sure what to tell his brother. He's been by his side through the whole Mickey ordeal all those years ago, so he might understand. On the other hand, it's probably futile to hope for an unbiased opinion from Lip on that matter. 

"So it's not about work, but kinda about work?" Lip asks with a light smirk on his lips, cause of course he'd hit the nail on the head on the first try. 

Ian decides to go for it. It's not like Lip can do more than scoff. Perhaps talking about it to someone other than his shrink, someone who's actually been there when it all went down, is just what he needs. 

"I kind of…met someone. At work," Ian adds in explanation. 

Lip's smirk grows wider. And more teasing.

"Oh? A  _ he _ someone?" 

Ian can't suppress an eye roll. 

"Obviously."

"And that's got you all upset? He turn you down or something?" 

"Not exactly, no, I…" Ian hesitates. "It's Mickey," he adds then, because there's really no use beating around the bush. 

Lip raises his eyebrows, the smirk vanishing in an instant. 

"Mickey Milkovich?" 

"What other Mickeys do we know?" 

"Holy fuck."

It's hard to gauge Lip's reaction. He looks mostly taken aback.

"So Mickey Milkovich is working with you now?" 

"No." Ian shakes his head impatiently. "No, he was brought in after a workplace accident. I just bandaged his arm."

Lip shakes his head very slowly, a frown taking over his features. 

"He come on to you?" 

"What?" Ian can't quite believe what he's hearing. "No, of course not. He was just…there. He didn't really do anything…or say anything. I think he hates me actually," he adds pathetically. 

Lip's frown deepens. 

"Why would  _ he _ hate  _ you? _ He has no fucking right to hate you. You're not the one who lied and strung him along for  _ weeks. _ What a fucking asshole."

It was a bad idea to tell Lip. That much is clear to Ian by now. Eager to end the conversation sooner rather than later, he just shrugs noncommittally. 

"Whatever."

Lip, however, clearly isn't done with him yet. 

"I know that look. You're thinking of doing something stupid." 

And there it is again. The assumption that Ian can't be trusted, that he must be watched or he'll do something  _ stupid. _ Which is especially rich coming from the guy whose bad decisions fucked up his entire promising future. 

Ian swallows down his anger, however, because he really doesn't feel like arguing with Lip, especially considering his brother has only been sober for a week. Ian is not going to be the one responsible for Lip's relapse. 

"I'm not thinking of anything," is therefore all he retorts. "Seeing Mickey again just kind of…brought back memories is all." 

It's not entirely truthful, but not a complete lie either. He  _ has _ been thinking about what happened all those years ago, dissecting what Mickey's motives might have been, and where he, Ian, might have been in the wrong. But it's also true that he's been wondering about their last encounter, and why Mickey has seemed so pissed off. 

It shouldn't really make a difference, since Ian and Mickey aren't  _ anything, _ and yet it still matters to him, for some reason, what Mickey thinks of him. He wants Mickey to  _ like _ him, now that their paths have crossed again, even if nothing will come of it. Because as much as he's tried to convince himself over the last couple of years, as much as Lip believes Mickey is just a past mistake of his, Ian has never quite gotten over Mickey. 

He's got several failed relationships to prove it. 

"So you're not thinking of finding him and…talking it out or whatever?" 

Lip's eyes are fixed on Ian's face now, as though daring him to show his irrational, rash side. 

It's really fucking annoying that Lip somehow seems to think he's in some way qualified to dish out advice or judgment on what is rational behavior. 

And also, what he said might not be the worst idea. There's data in the hospital on Mickey since he was just there as a patient. It would be easy for Ian to gather all the information he needs to find Mickey and just…have a chat, away from sterile hospital rooms, and without that weird patient-carer dynamic. 

Maybe they could both get answers on things they never talked about. Questions that are refusing to go away, and are sometimes even keeping Ian awake at night.

Surely there's a lot to talk about. Ian at least has tons of things that aren’t quite resolved, Mickey’s bound to have questions too, or just things to get off his chest. And once they've put it all to rest they might both be able to move on with their lives, go their separate ways, and perhaps Ian would  _ finally _ be able to move on properly. Or maybe it wouldn't have to be the end, maybe… 

Shit, he really shouldn’t be thinking like that. This isn’t just about him and what he wants. This is about Mickey too, and about finally hearing each other out.

"Ian?" 

He's been quiet for too long, and Lip has clearly noticed. His frown has gotten deeper, and it's obvious he's gearing up for another lecture. 

"Sorry," Ian says quickly, trying to stop his brother before he gets there. "Just remembered something. Work stuff."

Lip clearly doesn't believe him, but it seems like he's willing to let it go for once. 

"So…?" he begins again, looking expectantly at Ian. "You gonna let it go?" 

"Huh?" 

Lip rolls his eyes. 

"Mickey," he says pointedly, and Ian hates the way the name sounds coming from his brother. "You gonna get over it, or do I have to worry about you? 'Cause it's already making you act all strange, and I'm worried it'll get worse and knock you off balance." 

Ian hesitates. He hates lying to his brother. They're always honest with each other, it's always been this way since they were kids. But this, Lip just doesn't understand. Lip has never understood  _ Mickey, _ and what he meant to Ian, what he still means. Lip has no idea that there’s no way Ian can simply forget about it now that he’s seen Mickey again. Lip could never understand that Ian just _ needs to know. _ He needs to know the reasons why it all went to hell all those years ago. He needs to know that Mickey is really doing all right now, and if he still feels resentful toward Ian. He needs to finally get some answers and move on, whatever that may mean.

"Don't worry," Ian says, not quite looking Lip directly in the eye. "It just got me thinking about the past. There’s a lot of...shit that’s been bugging me. But it’s gonna be OK. I just need some time, you know. It’s time to move on."

* * *

_ "There's this guy…" Ian says cautiously, watching for Lip's reaction out of the corner of his eye.  _

_ It's only been about a year since he came out to Lip, by accident more than anything, and while his brother has been gradually more accepting of Ian's sexuality, it's not like they've ever really talked crushes before. Lip talks about the girls he bangs, and Ian has reluctantly offered his own, undetailed, anecdotes a couple of times, but this is different…very different.  _

_ "You fuck somebody?" Lip asks, leaning back against the banister of the stairs leading up to the kitchen, passing over the joint, while looking totally unconcerned.  _

_ "Not exactly…" Ian begins, and then realizes he has no idea how to talk about his...whatever it is, unrequited crush or something.  _

_ It's no secret that Lip is hoping for him to move on and fuck somebody other than his married thirty-something boss, which Lip has never understood and which he's been clearly freaked out by. Ian's not sure he entirely understands it anymore either. Not that it matters anymore anyway. That job is long gone, and with it the relationship or whatever it was. _

_ To give himself time to think, Ian brings the joint to his lips and inhales deeply, before passing it back to his brother.  _

_ "I guess I just kind of…like this one guy," he says slowly, exhaling at the same time.  _

_ Lip hums.  _

_ "Old guy?" he asks in a tone that's clearly supposed to be teasing but is laced with actual concern.  _

_ Ian closes his eyes for a moment. He's never going to live that down.  _

_ "Nope," he says after a moment. "Our age."  _

_ For the first time, Lip's interest seems to be piqued as he sits up straighter and turns to look at Ian, his eyebrows raised.  _

_ "Oh yeah? Who?"  _

_ And that's exactly where the problem lies. Ian knows he's being a fucking idiot about this. But maybe he needs Lip to knock some sense into him.  _

_ "Um…Mickey," he says, surprisingly sounding a lot less nervous than he feels.  _

_ Lip frowns.  _

_ "Mickey who?"  _

_ Ian takes a deep breath, mentally preparing for the worst.  _

_ "Milkovich."  _

_ For a moment, Lip just stares at him, then he snorts loudly, shaking his head.  _

_ "This is a joke, right?"  _

_ Ian bites his lip.  _

_ Lip's eyebrows shoot up.  _

_ "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Please tell me this is a joke." _

_ Ian just shrugs, feeling his ears grow hot. He  _ knows _ it's stupid. It's not like he's  _ choosing _ to feel this way.  _

_ "I didn't even know you knew him," Lip says after a moment, looking extremely confused. "I mean, he was in  _ my _ year. Until he dropped out I mean."  _

_ Ian shrugs again. He can feel the blush creeping over his cheeks now.  _

_ "We've been doing community service hours together." _

_ That makes Lip snort again.  _

_ "Of course. Should have known. Where else would you meet Mickey fucking Milkovich?"  _

_ Ian doesn't know what to say to that. He supposes there's some truth to it. The Milkoviches are sort of famous for being a family of criminals. It's why everyone stays away from them. The youngest sister, Mandy, is in a few of Ian's classes, but he's never spoken to her. She's pretty scary, like most of the family.  _

_ "Well, I guess that's what you get for being stupid enough to get caught," Lip says smugly, leaning back against the banister, joint loosely between his fingers.  _

_ Once again, Ian has to reluctantly agree. It was stupid. They've been pulling the dairy truck scam for years, and he's never been caught before. Now they're out of free milk and yoghurt for now, and he's spending his days picking up trash for free, instead of adding money to the squirrel fund.  _

_ Fiona was livid when she found out. _

_ "Yeah, well…" Ian sighs, snapping the joint from Lip's hand and taking a deep drag. "Now I'm working with him." _

_ "Did you two…you know," Lip says with interest, leaning forward to get a better look at Ian's face.  _

_ Ian can't help but scoff.  _

_ "What do you think? He'd probably beat the shit out of me if he even found out that I'm gay." _

_ Lip looks thoughtful for a moment.  _

_ "So why do you like him?"  _

_ It's a good question, and one that Ian's not quite sure he has an answer to. Still, he tries, because he knows Lip thinks Mickey's nothing but a filthy thug. And he's more than that. Or isn't he?  _

_ "I don't know," Ian begins, then bites his lip before he continues. "He's…actually quite…nice."  _

_ And even as Ian says it, he knows it's bullshit. Mickey isn't  _ nice, _ far from it. He's a dick to most people, has been a dick to Ian in front of all the other boys, and yet…he came running after him, didn't he? And he apologized. Sort of.  _

_ Lip is now looking at him with something like pity in his eyes.  _

_ "Jesus, what did he do to you? 'Nice', really?"  _

_ "OK, nice is the wrong fucking word, all right? He's just…he’s all right to me, when we're alone. He’s…different. I don't know. As though there’s something…there." _

_ Ian hates how lame all of this sounds, but he just can't put it into words. It's not really anything Mickey does or says, but…the way he looks at him. But telling Lip that would probably make him sound more pathetic, and so Ian keeps his mouth shut for now.  _

_ It's clear Lip thinks Ian's lost his marbles, but he doesn't tease anymore, just looks him over with a worried frown, before he finally speaks again. _

_ "So you think there's something between you guys, but you also still think he’d beat on you if he found out you're gay?” _

_ It sounds odd, when Lip states it that way, but it's true. And, knowing first hand what being a gay teen in the south side means, Ian knows it makes a lot more fucking sense than Lip knows.  _

_ So Ian just shrugs.  _

_ "Holy fuck, stay away from that guy, Ian," Lip says emphatically. "Do you hear me? It sounds like he's really bad fucking news. And he looks like a fucking bum anyway," he adds like an afterthought.  _

_ With that, however, Ian doesn't agree. Not even a little bit.  _

_ It sucks not having Lip on his side—or on his side but in a way he's of no fucking use to Ian. Because he could really use some good advice every now and again, or just some willing ear to listen when he needs to rant about Mickey's hot-and-cold behavior toward him.  _

_ The name calling during community hours has subsided a little bit, mainly because Mickey doesn't take part in it anymore, though all he says about that is that it's 'getting old.'  _

_ He doesn't defend Ian, however, when the other boys still tease him. In fact, it very much feels like Mickey tries to avoid and ignore Ian altogether while the other boys are around. If it weren't for the occasional glance in his direction that Ian catches, he'd think Mickey lost all interest. _

_ And if it weren't, of course, for the time every day after they're done and told to go home, when Mickey sprints after him as soon as the other boys have scattered.  _

_ What was unexpected and perhaps even unwelcome the first time has by now become Ian's favorite time of day. They don't necessarily talk a lot, though sometimes they do discuss movies, or music, or other stuff teenagers talk about. But still, even if they don't talk, it's never uncomfortable.  _

_ The only problem is that Ian is really itching to do more. If he could just touch Mickey's hand, or his face, or, fucking hell, give him an actual fucking hug. It's not like he's asking for much, he'd settle for little touches here and there, nothing more than friendly pats, for now, but he's afraid even those might be too much, considering the way Mickey ignores him as soon as other people are around.  _

_ It's therefore a real fucking shock, when it's Mickey who touches Ian first after a couple of days. It's nothing more than a slap on his shoulder, and yet it sets Ian's complete upper body on fire. But as it is with everything you long for for such a long time, it's never enough, and it only leaves Ian craving yet more contact.  _

_ Mickey, however, seems totally unaware of the impact his simple action had on Ian's mental well-being.  _

_ "Yo, it's Saturday tomorrow."  _

_ Ian's mushed brain needs some time to catch up.  _

_ "Right. So?"  _

_ Mickey raises his eyebrows. The most magnificently expressive eyebrows Ian's ever seen by the way.  _

_ "So it's the weekend, Gallagher. Not working the weekend, are we?"  _

_ Ian feels his heart sink in spite of himself. It's not like he'll miss picking up trash all day, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't sad about not seeing Mickey again until Monday.  _

_ "I guess not," he replies, trying to mask his disappointment.  _

_ Not fucking well enough though, apparently, if Mickey's smirk is anything to go by.  _

_ "You got any plans then?"  _

_ Ian shrugs. He'll definitely have things to do. There's always things to do at home, and since he's not even earning any money right now, he'll have to make up for it by helping more around the house. Hell, he might even find a weekend job. They could definitely use the money.  _

_ Ian feels a definite pang in his chest as he remembers what he was planning to be doing this summer before he got caught and sentenced to community service hours. But there's no way Westpoint will take him now, not with all that on his slate. Strangely enough though, the idea that he's tossed away his entire future doesn't hurt quite as bad anymore these days.  _

_ "Could meet up, go somewhere, have a couple of beers and shit."  _

_ Mickey's voice drags Ian right back from his daydreams. He's not sure he's heard correctly, but by the sheepish, almost nervous expression on Mickey's face—something that's extremely rare—Ian can tell he didn't imagine it.  _

_ "Um…yeah, sure. When? Where?"  _

_ He's trying not to sound too eager, but apparently there's no need to worry, since Mickey's face relaxes at his answer, his usual cocky expression returning.  _

_ "Same time? Let's meet here, then I'll show you. I know a place."  _

_ * * * _

The L is super crowded, something that doesn’t really come as a surprise to Ian since it’s the morning and a lot of people must be getting to work. He’d have preferred a different time, but it’s really his only chance to catch Mickey at work before his own shift starts at the hospital.

And Ian’s not going to Mickey’s apartment. He’s even held his hand in front of the monitor, blocking Mickey’s home address when accessing his file. He doesn’t want to know. No, who is he kidding, of course he wants to know, but he wants it to be Mickey’s choice to let him now. He’s not going to invade Mickey’s privacy like that, and he doesn’t want Mickey to feel cornered. It’s bad enough that he’s going after him at all.

However, since Mickey got injured at work, his work address was also in his file, and...well, Mickey knows where Ian works, so it’s really only getting them on even ground if Ian now knows where Mickey works. There’s nothing wrong about that, is there?

Ian gets off at a stop that—though still on the south side—he’s never been to, and takes out his phone to find out in which direction he needs to walk. Google predicts only a two minute walk to  _ Bob’s garage, _ and while Ian was relatively calm while on the train, now he can definitely feel his heart rate accelerate. 

He takes a few deep breaths and starts walking out of the station and down the street, barely paying attention to the same grimy old buildings that are present everywhere in the south side, or the people walking past him in a morning hurry. His eyes are already focused on a building a little further down the road, a large sign atop it, spelling in fading yellow letters on a background of peeling blue paint "Bob's garage." 

There's a large garage door beneath it, which could probably fit one of those enormous trucks you see sometimes in the city. All in all the building looks rather inconspicuous, with walls of dirty-red brick stone, and nothing but the large sign adorning it, but still it makes Ian's heart beat faster and the blood rush in his ears. 

This is it. This is where Mickey works. 

Ian comes to a halt on the other side of the street, right opposite the building. He just stares at it for several minutes, his fight and flight responses in an eager and intense battle over his body and soul, before he closes his eyes and clenches his fists, while taking a deep breath, willing his nerves away. 

He didn't come here to fucking run away again. He's  _ not _ going to run this time. It has never fucking helped him to run. 

Before his body can betray him, Ian has crossed the street and approached the door. He only now notices that it isn't actually a real door, but a dirty, thick kind of plastic curtain, cut into stripes. He pulls them aside to make enough room for him to enter and steps inside. 

There is absolutely nobody in sight. 

The room Ian stepped into would be more accurately described as a hall, filled with all sorts of junk all over the place, as well as tires, tools, car parts, and a couple of cars just standing by the side, or up on one of the few car hoists. 

It's a huge mess, and a little overwhelming for someone like Ian, who works in a hospital where everything has its proper place, and is always kept in perfect order. Nevertheless, it somehow feels like a place Mickey would fit right into. 

Mickey. 

"Um…excuse me?" 

Ian's voice sounds incredibly timid, and yet far too loud in the complete silence at the same time. 

Nothing happens. Nobody appears, no sound, nothing. 

"Hello? Anybody here?" Ian tries again, louder this time. 

Now there's some hasty rustling behind a shitty red pickup truck, before a tall guy appears, pulling ear plugs out of his ears. He looks young, maybe early twenties, and has a head full of ruffled looking black curls, and very tan skin. He's wearing the same kind of blue overall Mickey wore at the hospital, and Ian vaguely registers that he would think the guy was cute if his mind wasn't so intensely fixated on another handsome black haired mechanic. 

The guy approaches Ian quickly, looking a little flustered. 

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. I had my headphones on while I was…um…working, over there." 

He scratches his head awkwardly, now close enough for Ian to read his name tag. Rico. 

Ian suppresses a snort. It's more than obvious that Rico wasn't actually working, but just lounging behind the car, listening to music or something, but that's none of Ian's business, and, frankly, he doesn't really give a shit. 

"So…um...how can I help you?" Rico asks, straightening his posture, clearly in an attempt to look more professional after his little blunder. 

Ian can only just stop himself from grinning. What a strange guy. 

"Hi, I'm Ian. Actually, I'm looking for someone. A colleague of yours, I guess. Mickey? Is he here?" 

Strangely, Rico's face goes through a number of different emotions at that question, too quickly for Ian to pinpoint one long enough to understand what is going on, until, for some strange reason, his expression settles on hopeful delight. 

"Is this work related, or private?" Rico asks with badly concealed eagerness, which freaks Ian out just the tiniest bit. 

"Um…private?"

It comes out as a question, since Ian is starting to feel a little unnerved by the other man's sudden intense interest. 

If anything, Rico looks even more delighted at that. 

"Family matters or…other stuff?" he asks, his eyes widening almost comically. 

Ian has half a mind to tell him to mind his own business before reminding himself that going around offending Mickey's colleague, who might just be his friend, might not be the smartest idea. 

"Other stuff," is therefore all he says in response, hoping that Rico will stop asking now. 

It seems like that's what Rico was hoping to hear because he looks extremely pleased. 

"Yeah, he's not here, sorry. Not coming in today," Rico says almost smugly, leaning back against the nearest car. 

"Right…" is all Ian manages to say in response. He has trouble keeping the disappointment out of his voice, or off of his face. 

"Yeah, he's um…spending time with his family, you know," Rico goes on, unprompted, looking dreamy. "I think it's his daughter's birthday today. His wife made a cake and everything. Mickey's a real family man, you know." 

It's as though someone has emptied a bucket of ice cold water over Ian's head. His heart skips a beat, and his vision becomes blurry for a moment. His hand instinctively grabs on to the next available surface to steady himself. The rushing of blood in his ears is suddenly so loud he barely makes out Rico's next words. 

"Yeah, his family is everything to Mickey. I reckon he'd go pretty ballistic if anyone tried to fuck that up for him, you know? So um…anything you want me to tell him?" 

The last words barely register in Ian's brain, nor does the amused expression on the other man's face. He can't stop repeating a few words over and over in his head. 

Daughter. Wife. Family man. 

Ian should have known. He's a fucking idiot for not considering this. There was a reason why Mickey seemed less than pleased to see Ian again. But Ian was so focused on the fact that Mickey wasn't wearing a ring that he didn't even consider for a moment that Mickey might have taken it off for workplace safety. 

Of course there's a wife. And a daughter. Possibly more kids. A happy fucking family. 

Mickey must have seen Ian as a threat to his perfect little life, and here he is, being just that. 

_ Fuck. _

Now Ian's flight response is definitely activated, and yet his feet seem to be stuck to the floor. He vaguely registers that his response to the information is way too extreme, but his mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions, and memories. Fucking memories. 

_ Fuck. _

"Yo, man, you OK?" 

Ian vaguely registers Rico's voice and pulls himself out of his thoughts violently. 

Not now. Not here. Not while being watched by this weird guy. 

He can break down later, punch a wall, cry, yell, whatever over-the-top, overdramatic, inappropriate shit he feels like doing, but now he just needs to get the fuck out of here. 

"Hey, you all right?" 

There's actual concern now evident in Rico's voice, which Ian's foggy, overwhelmed brain registers as odd, considering the man's previous eagerness and excitement. However, he can't think about this right now. He can't think about anything. It takes everything he has to not break down right now in a fit of hysterics. 

Maybe Frank was right. He's always been a goddamn drama queen. 

"Yeah, I'm…fine," Ian manages to choke out, not looking at the other man. 

He needs to get out of here. 

Ian turns to leave, walking towards the ugly plastic curtains as fast as his shaking legs allow him, but stops himself at the last moment, turning half around. 

He can't do this. He can't just shut the door with no way back. There's still things he wants to know, things he needs to understand…

“Mickey, um...he knows where I live, so...just...just tell him I was here, OK?”

And he quickly parts the curtain, and hurries outside, nothing else on his mind but to get away from this place as quickly as possible. 


	3. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence

It’s not like Mickey doesn’t hate the world and all the people in it—including himself,  _ especially _ himself—on a normal day, but now it’s on a whole new level. And apparently it’s obvious to the people around him, too, since Rico has commented on Mickey’s bad mood several times now. And it’s not like that fucker isn’t used to Mickey being annoyed by everyone, especially him.

Mickey blames it on his injury and the pain, and Rico seems more or less happy with that explanation. It makes sense, after all. Mickey’s been off ever since the day of the accident.

If only the whirlwind of thoughts in Mickey’s mind was as easy to convince. But that just won’t calm down, never once ceasing to circle around one person:

Ian fucking Gallagher.

The damned injury and the pain obviously don’t help Mickey's irritation about that fucker's stubborn refusal to get out of Mickey's head, but he's not a fucking teenager anymore, so he knows himself. And he sure as fuck knows that Gallagher has always and will always hold his fucking heart, mind, and sanity hostage if he lets him. 

Only Mickey hasn't figured out how to fight him off, nor is he entirely sure he wants to. 

All Mickey knows is that it's fucking exhausting to constantly fend off memories, feelings of regret, and worst of all dumb  _ hope, _ as if there was anything left to save. 

So give him a fucking break if he doesn't have the patience for Rico's bullshit, which is annoying enough when Mickey's thoughts aren't circling around how badly he fucked up all those years ago, and how much Ian clearly still resents him. 

Mickey can't blame him, not really. He knows he should have been honest from the start, but then again, it's not like he ever promised Gallagher a damn thing. It's not like they were  _ dating _ or anything. It wasn't a secret to anyone who Mickey was and who his  _ dad _ was, so whatever Gallagher set his mind on back then was never going to happen. Mickey knew that, and Ian should have known too. 

But Ian always was a dreamer, and had all those romantic ideas in his head that teenage Mickey wouldn't even have dared think of for fear of being too much of a fag. 

Thing is, Mickey’d known all that. He’d known Gallagher was in too deep. Fucking hell, he’d known  _ he himself _ was in too deep. And he’d known it couldn't go anywhere, he’d known he should put a stop to it right there and then. Only he couldn't. 

Being with Ian was like a rush of adrenaline — like running from the cops and realizing you're going to get away, like beating up some piece of shit asshole who couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut after you've kept quiet all day around your dad, taking all his shit and anger. 

Only with Gallagher everything felt so much better. 

It's sad really that teenage Mickey didn't have any more positive analogies. Every good feeling he experienced, every good moment he lived through was somehow intertwined with the darkness of everything else in his life, with violence, crime, and humiliation. 

It was Ian who showed him that there was more to life, only Mickey didn't dare believe that it could really be for him. 

That he could have freedom, a place to be himself, or  _ love. _

Mickey bites down on his cheek to stop himself from cursing out loud at his own stupidity and inability to just let the past fucking rest and move on. But of course that was a dumb fucking idea since now his cheek hurts and he tastes blood.

_ Fuck. This. Day. _

“Yo, Mickey?”

That fucking annoying voice again.

Mickey closes his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath through clenched teeth. 

_ Don’t yell at Rico. Don’t yell at Rico. Don’t yell at Rico. Don’t— _

“Bob’s out. Wanna get breakfast?”

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a few more calculated breaths. It’s not like Rico is intentionally annoying. It’s just who he is, and really, this is a lot better than a lot of the shit Mickey usually has to deal with.

“We’ve had breakfast,” Mickey says in a forced calm voice.

All he wants to do is get his fucking work done, get home, and watch some mind-numbing television, with as little human communication or contact as fucking possible.

“I kinda want donuts,” is Rico’s answer, accompanied by a shrug.

It’s like talking to a toddler, and though Mickey doesn’t have too much experience with the little fuckers, he does know that denying them what they want may result in a fucking temper tantrum, which is about the last fucking thing he wants to deal with right now.

“Right,” he lets out with a heavy, annoyed sigh. “Let’s get fucking donuts then.”

Rico’s face lights up as if he’s indeed just five years old.

“Awesome! I’ll take one glazed and one chocolate-frosted. You’re the best, man!”

And with that he thrusts a couple of bills into Mickey’s hand.

As Mickey finds himself further down the street in a long-ass fucking line in front of the donut shop, he wonders why he didn’t just shove the damn money down Rico’s throat.

He barely has the patience to deal with Rico’s chattering on a normal day, but then he at least doesn’t just take what Rico throws at him, but gives as good as he gets. It’s like Rico fucking knows that Mickey’s not in a talking mood and just wants nothing more than to stay out of eveyone’s way. Of course that dick found a way to make the situation work for him–and obviously Mickey is too fucking desperate to avoid any kind of conflict to put him in his place.

On the other hand, at least here, waiting in line, he’s invisible and can brood as much as he wants to, without any annoying voices interrupting his toxic thoughts with stupid suggestions or inquiries. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Mickey waits for more than ten minutes until it’s finally his turn. Ten minutes during which his mind manages a couple more circles around the same fucking thoughts he’s had for days now. It’s amazing how quickly he can go from guilt to justification of his own actions to anger at Ian just leaving him high and dry to guilt again, and that several times in that short amount of time. It’s fucking torture, is what it is, that whenever he has a moment to himself there’s red hair and green eyes and freckles again, even though he’d successfully banished those intrusive images a while ago.

Why the hell did he have to see Gallagher again? Why couldn’t he just keep living his pitiful life as an angry ex thug working in a shitty garage in the south side? What the hell did he do to deserve to have these old wounds torn open again?

And why does he still want to see Ian again? Why the fuck can’t he take a fucking hint and accept when shit is over? Why, why, _ why _ does that fucker still hold such emotional power over him?

When It’s Mickey’s turn he considers buying the wrong kinds of donuts for Rico for a moment, just to fuck with him a little because the guy for sure deserves that. But then he remembers that he’d much rather avoid any kind of argument right now and would prefer to just get back to work as quickly as possible, so he gets the donuts Rico ordered, as well as two of the ones with the most chocolate for himself. If everything has to suck he’ll at least treat himself to sweet stuff.

It takes no time at all for Mickey to get back to the garage, but instead of finding Rico lounging around doing nothing as expected, his colleague awaits him eagerly on the other side of the curtain, jumping from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and excited, and looking like a complete idiot.

Mickey groans internally. It definitely looks like Rico wants to tell him something and expects him to listen. Why can’t that dumbass take a fucking hint just once, and leave him in peace?

“Mickey, you’re not gonna believe what just happened!”

Mickey dumps the bag with the donuts on a workbench, not saying anything or sparing his colleague another glance. It’s not like this is going to discourage Rico anyway.

It doesn’t.

“Guess what just happened!”

Mickey groans for real this time. “Just fucking tell me if you really gotta, all right? Not in the mood for fucking games. And eat your stupid donuts.”

“All right, all right.” Rico waves his hands in a weird way before he grabs a donut from the bag and hands one of the chocolaty ones to Mickey. “So, you remember what you told me a while ago? About what I’m supposed to do if a guy shows up and asks after you?”

Chewing on his donut, Mickey raises an eyebrow. He does remember that, of course he does. It was probably a year ago, or maybe even more, when there was this one guy he hooked up with, Marcus, that just couldn’t take a fucking hint. He followed Mickey home and tried to get him to go out with him even though Mickey made it completely fucking clear that it was a one time thing. In the end he had to threaten the dumb fucker with violence for him to finally leave him the fuck alone, but before it came to that he did ask Rico for his help in case Marcus ever came to the garage. He didn’t, ultimately, but he probably would have if Mickey hadn’t lost his temper at some point and almost attacked the motherfucker.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense for the guy to suddenly come back after more than a year though.

“What did you tell him?” Mickey asks, confused, but nevertheless mildly amused by the situation.

“Oh, you should have seen me!” Rico exclaims proudly. “I dished out a whole ass story about you being married and having kids and everything.”

Mickey snorts in spite of himself. Something he hasn’t done in days. “And he really believed that?”

“Oh yeah,” Rico nods, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Guy was upset I can tell you. Almost felt sorry for the dude.”

It doesn’t feel right. Marcus followed him around for days back then, he waited outside his apartment door for him and asked Mickey’s neighbors shit about him. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense, not for him to turn up after a fucking year, and even less for him to believe Rico’s story about Mickey having a family.

But if it’s not Marcus, who the fuck could it be?

Mickey mentally rushes through all the guys he hooked up with in the last couple of months. Most of them were assholes who were a pain to be around but who, like Mickey himself, were interested in nothing more than a quick fuck. There were a few that tried to talk him into giving them his number and whined a little as he left quickly after they were done, but those were all several weeks ago. The last one that was a clingy and whiny fucker was a guy called Dave, about two weeks ago. Strange that he’d only come knocking now but maybe it just took him that long to find out where Mickey worked.

"Blond, tall, surfer type dude?" Mickey asks, trying to remember what exactly Dave looked like. Nothing particularly striking comes to his mind. 

Rico snorts. 

"Nah, man. Redhead."

That makes Mickey pause and his heart rate pick up. 

_ Fuck no.  _

"As in…more like strawberry blond?" he asks hopefully, though deep down he knows it's no use. 

"No, full-on orange, I'm telling you. Really fucking bright, too." 

_ Fuck. Fuck. _ **_Fuck._ **

“Did he tell you his name?”

Rico screws up his face as though thinking very hard.

“Oh yeah, he did,” he says then, perking up. “It was ‘Ian.’”

* * *

_ “How did you find this place?” _

_ Ian looks around them, at the dirty concrete walls, the dust on the floor, the glassless openings that were supposed to become windows some day. He seems impressed, if slightly intimidated, and Mickey can feel the traitorous heat creep up his face and redden his cheeks at the look on Ian's face.  _

_ He looks down at the filthy concrete floor, and shrugs as though it's not a big deal.  _

_ "'s a couple of pretty big buildings, man. Hard to miss."  _

_ Out of the corner of his eye Mickey catches sight of Ian's dumbass grin. He feels the corners of his own mouth twitch in spite of himself.  _

_ "Sure, but it's not exactly 'round the corner," Ian says, sinking down, so he's sitting with his back against the wall. "I've never really been here before." _

_ Mickey doesn't know what to say so he just shrugs again, slipping the old and filthy backpack off his shoulder and sitting down next to the redhead, though far enough away that their legs aren't touching.  _

_ Ian is still looking around himself as though there might be stuff in this place he hasn't seen yet, though Mickey highly doubts that. The walls are bare after all, and there's no furniture or anything like it in the abandoned buildings.  _

_ To give himself something to do, Mickey pulls a can of beer and his pocket knife out of his bag, stabbing the can quickly and efficiently.  _

_ "Shotgun?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at the ginger.  _

_ Ian just grins at him, as Mickey opens the latch and let's the cool liquid pour down his throat, before he quickly hands the can over to Ian who empties it within seconds. They both belch loudly, then catch each other’s eyes, and for some strange reason they both burst out laughing and find it hard to stop for a while. _

_ They go through all of Mickey’s beers first, then his weed, until he finally pulls the vodka bottle from his backpack handing it to Ian who’s wearing a ridiculously dopey grin on his face. Mickey can’t help but laugh once again at the fact that Ian already looks so fucked up, and then he laughs even harder when it occurs to him that he’s probably not any fucking better himself.  _

_ Ian joins in with his laughter even though that ginger idiot can’t have any fucking idea what Mickey might be laughing about. That only makes Mickey laugh even harder, until he has to stop because his sides start to hurt and his jaw muscles begin cramping up. _

_ He can’t fucking remember the last time he laughed this much. Can’t even really remember a time where he laughed at all⏤in a happy way at least. And now he can’t fucking stop until his body fucking aches. Something about Ian makes Mickey behave in a way that is absolutely not  _ him, _ and yet it feels better than Mickey has ever felt before. _

_ “What you thinking of, dreamy fucker?” Ian asks out of nowhere. _

_ Mickey glances at the boy next to him, and he’s not sure what he expected but it definitely wasn’t this kind of soft expression on Ian’s face. _

_ Mickey snorts and just shrugs. He’s not so sure he’s really thinking about anything, and he can feel his neck warming up at the way the other boy still looks at him. _

_ He’s vaguely aware that Ian’s never looked at him like that before, but then again, they’ve never been this fucked up together before, so who fucking knows what it means. _

_ Mickey closes his eyes, and little dots appear in the darkness, dancing around, forming and reforming weird little formations there, swirling and rushing. It’s kind of intoxicating, but also slightly nauseating the longer he watches them. _

_ Ian shifts slightly next to Mickey, his sneakers scraping over the filthy concrete floor, and Mickey forces his lazy eyes open again, staring into the open space ahead of him, now slowly turning orange and pink as the sun begins to set. _

_ He’s not sure why but his thoughts shift back to an earlier point in their conversation. _

_ “Been kind of running from my dad,” Mickey says after a short pause. _

_ “Huh?” Ian’s eyes are glassy, and he’s definitely just as high and drunk as Mickey is, but he nevertheless looks interested, perhaps a little concerned even. _

_ “‘S how I found the buildings,” Mickey explains.  _

_ He’s not sure why he even tells Ian this, and he’s vaguely aware that he definitely wouldn’t if he was sober. Nonetheless he rambles on, as though his mouth is no longer controlled by his brain or whatever.  _

_ “He was in a real bad mood because⏤” Mickey hiccups slightly, and perhaps that is his brain signalling him to finally shut the fuck up. “Anyway. I ran off and for some reason ended up here. Been hanging out here ever since.” _

_ He takes a big gulp from the vodka bottle and shivers in spite of himself. _

_ Ian still hasn’t said anything. He’s just watching him, as though waiting for more, as though he  _ knows _ there’s more to Mickey’s story. _

_ “Kinda became my place,” Mickey goes on, staring at his fingers around the bottleneck.  _

_ He wonders briefly how much strength he’d need to burst it, have shards of glass fly everywhere. And if any of it would get stuck in his hand, making him bleed.  _

_ As he looks up again, he finds Ian still watching him with half-lidded eyes. _

_ “‘S where I go when I just wanna hang out on my own,” Mickey adds stupidly, because he’s not on his own right now, is he? _

_ It begins to dawn on him how heavily his words actually weigh. He basically just admitted to inviting Ian into his hideout, his secret, personal space. And maybe it’s the weed and the alcohol but the whole thing doesn’t make Mickey panic for once. He actually feels...safe, comfortable, all that shit, and Ian’s arm against his feels nice and warm. Ian’s eyes are half-closed, looking much darker than their usual green color in the dark orange of the fading evening light, and his lips are slightly parted. They look incredibly soft, so soft… _

_ Mickey blinks and sits up straight again, his back against the cool concrete once more. He thinks he hears Ian sigh softly next to him as he shuffles to sit upright again too. _

_ They don’t speak for a while, both just staring right ahead as their shadows slowly fade into nothing, becoming one with the gray of the blank walls around them. _

_ Somewhere in the back of Mickey’s mind he registers that he almost kissed Ian, that he  _ wanted _ to kiss Ian, but he’s too tired and dozy already to find the deeper meaning, or panic about his recklessness, or wonder if Ian would have kissed him back.  _

_ “Sorry about your dad,” Ian says suddenly, softly, though in the silence it still rings quite loud. “I’ve heard he can be a piece of work.” _

_ “Yeah,” Mickey hears himself respond, just as softly. “It sucks sometimes.” _

_ They make their ways back home not long after that, Ian saying something about needing to be home before anyone gets worried. They just wave dumbly to each other as they part at a crossway, both giving each other lazy smiles, before they’re on their separate ways. _

_ Mickey barely registers his way back home, his feet carrying him almost automatically in the right direction, while his mind still wallows in the contentment from earlier. _

_ Mickey’s so drunk and high off his ass⏤both due to the drugs and  _ Ian _ ⏤that he doesn’t remember to be quiet as he opens the door to his home⏤or maybe he would have been too clumsy in his inebriated state anyway. He stumbles through the door, knocking over  _ something  _ in the process⏤probably some kind of weapon, he finds himself thinking blearily⏤which makes so much fucking noise it causes his ears to ring. His brain vaguely registers that that’s a bad thing, but his slowed down thoughts haven’t yet managed to catch up with the feeling of  _ bad-run-hide, _ when he’s smashed against the nearby wall. _

_ “Where have you been, you little shit?” _

_ His father’s voice rings loud in Mickey’s ears, and the pain in his head from hitting the wall splits right through the batting that was until then wrapped around his brain. _

_ “Out,” is all he manages to choke out, as his dad’s large hands wrap around his throat, shaking him. _

_ One hand leaves his throat, only for it to smash against his jaw, making Mickey taste blood. _

_ If his brain wasn’t mushy before, it definitely is now. All Mickey can think or feel is the throbbing in his head, and the pressure against his throat that makes him automatically flail and push against the restriction with his much smaller hands. He can’t hear much but the rushing in his ears and his own gasps for air⏤when suddenly the grip loosens, and Mickey slumps to the ground, gasping and coughing. _

_ For a few moments all Mickey hears and feels is his own ragged breathing, the violent throbbing in his head, the pulsing in his ears, but it soon comes through to him that his father is still yelling at him. _

_ “⏤piece of shit. We had work to do, numbers to file off, shit to measure and pack up. Where the fuck were you? Out fuckin drinkin? Havin a good time, eh? Leave your fucking family to do the fucking dirty work, did ya? Too good for that shit, are ya?⏤” _

_ It goes on like this for a while, interrupted only by the occasional kick to Mickey’s ribs or stomach. _

_ Mickey barely listens. He just covers his face with his arms and curls into a ball, protecting his body best he can. The alcohol and weed numbs the pain a little bit, but Mickey is well aware that that only means it will come back so much worse once the shit has worn off. _

_ He’s aware that his dad is not being fair⏤that he never told Mickey he couldn’t go out tonight, and that his rage is probably due to some completely unrelated shit⏤but Mickey doesn’t even find it in himself to get angry or frustrated about that. He just waits for it to be over, because it always ends at some point. _

_ When it finally does, Mickey stays curled up on the floor for a while longer, not daring to look up or move so as not to draw any more attention to himself. Only when he hears his dad grunt and plop down on the couch, and the sound of the television blaring through the room, does he slowly push himself up and stumble to his room, making as little noise as possible. _

_ Mickey doesn’t even bother to clean himself, undress, or even take off his shoes. He just collapses on his bed, closes his eyes, and listens to the pulsing in his ears.  _

_ The lazy contentment from earlier has turned into cold numbness, into fucking hopelessness. Because that’s what his life is. Fucking hopeless. Mickey can lie to himself for a couple of hours when he’s with Ian and he’s fucking  _ happy _ for once in his life, but the wake-up call will always come soon after. Because Ian will never be more than a distraction. He can’t be, because Mickey is not the one in control of his own fucking life. _

_ Mickey buries his face in his pillow to muffle the scream that suddenly bursts out of him, his entire body tensing up, before he collapses again, all strength leaving him once more. _

_ What’s even the fucking point anymore? _

_ * * * _

Mickey doesn’t sleep that night.

He’s fucking pissed, and he has been all day, at Rico at first for scaring Ian off. Then when it finally dawned on him that Rico only did what Mickey told him to do, he was pissed at himself for telling Rico to do something so fucking stupid in the first place. Then it was Rico again, for sending Mickey to get fucking donuts during a time when he usually would have been at work. Any other fucking day he would have been there when Ian came in. If only his motherfucker of a colleague hadn’t made him⏤

Mickey stops himself right there.

A nagging part of himself keeps asking why he even cares. He’s been wishing that Ian hadn’t come back into his life again, so he wouldn’t have to suffer through all the shit from the past again. Now it looks like Ian’s going to leave him alone for good. Isn’t that what he fucking wanted? To just continue his miserable fucking existence as though he’d never met Ian at the hospital?

The thing is though, that another⏤very fucking annoyingly emotional⏤part of him always stops this train of thought by making him ask himself how anyone can be so fucking dumb about their own fucking feelings. 

Mickey never wanted to lose Ian. Fucking never. He’d have given his right arm to have a life with him even back when they were teenagers. Only he thought that deciding to be with Ian would cost him much, much more than his right arm.

And even if he’s trying to tell himself it’s not true, he still has feelings for the red-headed bastard. However much he’s tried to kill them over the last years, they never fully went away, just biding their time, until he came face to face with the other man again, so they could swallow him back up with all their force.

Not to mention that his perspective has been changed by the fact that  _ Ian came to find him. _ Mickey was almost entirely sure that Ian resented him after they’d met at the hospital. Ian was distant, and careful, and⏤

Mickey’s not completely sure he read the situation correctly. Which is why he’s now unable to sleep, his brain desperately trying to recall every fucking detail of their encounter at the hospital, every look, every miniscule reaction, every hesitation, every⏤

But of course he can’t, and the few times that Mickey’s mind does manage to settle on a version, he’s not sure if it’s an actual memory, or just a fabrication of his own brain.

Does Ian really still hate him? Then why would he come and find Mickey at his work? And why would he be upset at Rico’s family story? If Rico can even be believed about that of course…

Mickey groans into his pillow in frustration.

If he’s now spent fucking  _ days  _ upset that Ian still hates him, only to find out he didn’t, but he probably does now⏤it’s too fucking much.

_ Fucking Rico. _

No, fuck that. Mickey can’t keep putting the blame on other people, when he clearly blew that spectacularly himself.

But then again...Rico had no idea of course, but he still couldn’t have found a worse fucking story to come up with. Considering their past, everything Mickey and Ian went through, everything that held them together and then tore them apart, it actually makes a lot of sense for Ian to be really fucking upset about Rico’s damned lies. Mickey can’t say he’s surprised that Ian fled the scene quickly afterwards.

And Mickey needs to make it right again. 

It took all his internal strength back at the garage not to just run outside, find Ian and tell him none of it was true. The situation was so fucking overwhelming that he almost threw all caution to the wind and behaved in a way that was absolutely not fucking like him.

Because Mickey Milkovich doesn’t run after people unless it’s to give them a good beatdown (and to be quite honest⏤he hasn’t even done that in a few years). He didn’t run after Ian then, didn’t beg him to give him another chance. He just let Ian go, let him make up his own mind, which he did, and apparently Ian’s mind told him to cut Mickey out of his life completely.

Sometimes Mickey wonders what life could have been like if he  _ had _ chased after Ian  _ like some bitch. _ He probably just would have made a major ass of himself, humiliated himself only to still watch Ian walk away from him. Although of course there’s also other possibilities. Perhaps Ian would have stayed in his life, but...would things really have ended up being different? There’s no fucking telling what could have happened considering it all went down so very differently from how Mickey envisioned it in the first place.

It all turned out better than he thought it would but...without Ian.

Mickey turns several times in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing feels right. There’s a restlessness in his whole body, an itching in his fingers, a fucking murmuring in his brain that he can’t seem to shut off and just go the fuck to sleep.

It’s like he can’t find any rest as long as Ian fucking Gallagher still believes Mickey’s fucking married with kids. And stupidly enough, Mickey can picture exactly what Ian must have looked like when Rico told him the lie.

Well, the face he pictures is mostly that of younger Ian, of the Ian in the exact moment that Mickey broke his sensitive fucking heart into a million pieces, because that image of shiny puppy dog eyes, and a lightly quivering chin is one that Mickey will never be able to forget. Only now it has changed somewhat, become a weird sort of hybrid between teenage Ian’s heartbroken expression and adult Ian’s face as Mickey saw him several days before.

It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful image, and yet one that Mickey can’t fucking bear to imagine.

Mickey turns again, feeling like he wants to tear of his face with his own fucking fingernails, because of the inendurable energy still flowing through him. An energy that seems to just want to kick his ass and make him find Ian, explain himself.

Turning on his back, Mickey covers his face with his hands.

_ “Fuck!” _

It’s really fucking loud in the silence of his bedroom, and Mickey half expects his neighbors to pound on his wall so he’ll shut up, but nothing happens. 

Rubbing his hands over his face, he takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

What he really wants to do right now is to find Ian, explain to him what happened, and hear why Ian came to find him.

Because obviously what Mickey is hoping for is that Ian still cares about him in some way. That he doesn’t want them to keep going their separate ways, whatever that may mean. But then, there’s the tiny chance that Ian went looking for him for some other reason. Perhaps even to tell Mickey to stay away, that he shouldn’t get any fucking ideas just because they met again after all those years.

Mickey groans into the silence. 

He’s not a little bitch. He has his fucking pride, and he can’t stand the idea of running after Ian to explain himself only to find out that Ian just wanted to let him know that he wants nothing to do with him.

So he can’t go looking for Ian. He fucking can’t. But he has his checkup appointment at the hospital in three days⏤and he has to turn up for it. Nothing fucking desperate about that, is there? So, if he’s there anyway, there’s nothing wrong about  _ casually _ mentioning how Rico told him Ian came by, and then  _ just  _ as casually explaining that Rico made all that shit up, and that nothing about it is true, right? Of course, Ian might not believe one word of it⏤and given everything that happened there’s no way that Mickey could blame him for it either. But at least Mickey won’t have to feel like a little bitch in case he got it all wrong and Ian still hates his guts.

Can he do three fucking days? Can he wait this fucking long? Possibly go without sleeping for three days straight if his dumb fucking brain won’t shut up about it?

Mickey takes another deep breath, his eyes now wide open, focused on a water stain on his ceiling that is now barely visible in the gray night.

He has to bear it. Waiting for his appointment to say something is the only way he can ensure he won’t lose the very last of his dignity he still has left. And it’s not like things are going to change in those three days, is it? It’s not like Ian will be more or less likely to forgive him if Mickey takes another couple of days.

This is the way to go.

Groaning once more, Mickey tosses his blanket to the side and pushes himself up.

It’s not like he’s going to sleep tonight anyway, so why not watch TV instead to distract himself?


	4. Ian

Ian’s always been pretty fucking great at running away from difficult things and problems, so it really shouldn’t come as a fucking surprise to anyone—least of all Ian himself—that that’s exactly what he does.

He knows it’s not a healthy way of dealing with shit—hard not to know by now with his shrink always repeating it—but when life gets hard Ian Gallagher runs instead of dealing with what’s going on. It’s always been like that.

Maybe he should have learned by now that it’s not helpful, and maybe he has, because at least he doesn’t really, _ literally _ run from things anymore... (although he did run from the fucking garage—but who could blame him). But it’s definitely still true that if a distraction offers itself in the face of emotional turmoil or fucking _ heartache _ he’ll take it—instead of actually dealing with the problem at hand.

Maybe he’s even gotten better at that in the last years. He’s faced a couple of conflicts at work head on, has actually talked about his bad days both with his brother and the shrink, and even talked various problems out with his last boyfriend—before they broke up anyway.

But this is  _ Mickey. _ And Mickey is a remnant from a time when Ian was a fucking stupid teenage boy who thought he could be anything, and have anything, and allowed himself to fall so deeply in love with a boy who clearly couldn’t give two shits about him that all he could do was to push it all away and fucking _ run _ when it all went to shit.

So Ian is almost grateful when he has a reason to go straight to work after that disastrous trip to the garage. It seems like a good thing that he can bury himself in his work and the problems of other people. He deals with broken bones and stab wounds all day, comforts people in pain and anxious relatives, and when there’s nothing to do for a moment, he goes through the supply closet and restocks whatever needs restocking, cleans stuff that’s already clean, or takes care of paperwork—anything to keep himself from thinking about Mickey.

The first time he doesn’t have anything to do is when he steps onto the L train taking him back home, wedged between other commuters, and within no time it’s all back.

Mickey, the fucking  _ family man. _ Mickey, with a wife and daughter, leading the very life Ian once screamed at him was a fucking lie. Mickey, who will clearly never want anything to do with him again. And Ian himself, the dumbass, too fucking naive for his own good, thinking that what was in the past would stay in the fucking past, and not follow him into the present to fuck up the life he built over the last few years.

Not that it’s that great of a life. Yes, he likes his job, but he’s got a stupid fucking disorder that makes his life hell sometimes, a family he loves, but very often fails to see him as anyone else than a copy of their crazy runaway mother. His lovelife: a string of short-lived relationships, never with that  _ spark, _ but always good enough, until his disorder fucks him over again and they run for the fucking hills.

He’s so fucking  _ tired _ of it, and perhaps that’s why he so desperately longed to connect with Mickey again. Because besides being a remnant of a time when Ian was stupid and naive, seeing Mickey again also painfully reminds Ian of other parts of who he used to be.  _ Mickey _ means a time when Ian felt he was more or less in control of himself and his future, a time that he felt so fucking  _ alive, _ and not because of mania but because he was genuinely  _ happy. _ Whatever that was like.

It hurts, and it makes him angry at the fucking unfairness of it all, and desperately sad at the same time, and as he finally gets home and spots Lip sitting at the kitchen table, he knows—if only for a moment—that it would probably help to talk to his brother about what happened, tell him about his agony, ask for his support.

But he can’t. 

Because Lip wouldn’t get it. Lip never understood what was going on between Ian and Mickey and what it meant. To Lip, Mickey was just some asshole who fucked Ian over, nothing more. Lip doesn’t get that Mickey was  _ it _ for Ian, even then. That dumb little teenaged Ian imagined a future for them together… because Mickey made him feel things he never felt before and hasn’t felt since. Lip doesn’t get it because he doesn’t know that there’s a soft, gentle side to Mickey that nobody but Ian ever got to see, that there was  _ so much more _ to what they were than just a fling.

So Ian just hurries up the stairs, into his room, and slumps down on his bed, staring at the ceiling without really seeing any of it.

He’s exhausted. Not only physically, after a long day at work, but also emotionally. It’s like he put all of his energy into the possibility of reconnecting with Mickey and then that fucking bubble just burst and now there’s nothing left.

Ian groans quietly.

He knows he’s being fucking dramatic. He knows he’s barely exchanged more than a few words with Mickey in fucking years, and that there was no reason _ whatsoever _ for him to have any fucking hope in the first place, but what the hell...he’s been told he’s a fucking drama queen before, nothing to do about it.

And  _ that _ , perhaps, makes it even worse. The fact that he’s clearly fucking overreacting, which means that nobody would even fucking get why he’s feeling like shit right now. So there’s no point in even trying to tell anyone.

Fuck.

Apparently someone cooked dinner, because at some point Lip yells up the stairs for everyone to get downstairs and grab a plate.

When Ian glances at the clock, the fucking thing tells him he’s been lying on his back feeling sorry for himself for two hours now. And if that’s not fucking sad and pathetic he doesn’t know what is.

At the same time Ian feels a slight jolt of panic. It’s the same kind of panic that hits him whenever he finds himself motionless for a while, or zoned out, or just fucking low. Nobody tells you how fucking exhausting it is to constantly double check your own emotions.

At least none of his siblings came into the room to check on him, or else they’d probably be all worried about him too, getting all in his face about not letting himself go, staying healthy, and keeping his fucking routine. If it was Lip, it would be especially bad, since Lip gets so fucking worried and overprotective sometimes. If Lip had seen Ian like that, just lying there, staring at the fucking ceiling, he’d probably be pestering him to call the fucking shrink already.

Although that might not be such a bad idea... Fuck knows Ian has unhealthy coping mechanisms, and he needs someone to point them out to him before he gets lost too deep in them. He definitely doesn’t want this shit to fuck him up completely.

Ian’s relieved when he finds that moving isn’t that hard, and that he’s actually hungry and looking forward to dinner despite everything. But maybe it’s not that surprising. This doesn’t really feel like one of his depressive episodes. There’s this…weird destructive energy flowing through him. Like a battle between his need to break things, his desire to act as though nothing is wrong and forget about all the shit, and his will to just wallow in his own heartbreak.

Fucking  _ heartbreak? _ He only just met Mickey again after not seeing the guy for fucking years. How can this even be called heartbreak? Not like his heart wasn’t already broken in the first place...

Sitting up, Ian rubs his hands over his face a couple of times, trying to wake himself up a little. He can’t let himself slip away like this again. He might be relatively stable now, because he looks after himself, keeps his routine, takes his meds religiously, and watches himself and his own emotions nonstop, but he knows that can change if he allows himself to let himself go emotionally, or fucking physically for that matter.

And how fucking pathetic would it be to slip into an episode—be it manic or depressive—because of a heartbreak that happened eight fucking years ago. Ian may be a fucking drama queen but that should be too much even for him.

That following night is the fucking worst.

Ian’s traitorous brain just won’t shut the fuck up, conjuring up memories from a time when he and Mickey were...something. When everything was just so fucking exciting and new and  _ great,  _ and felt like it would go on like this forever.

And while those are actually happy memories now they’re just fucking painful.

He was such a dumb fucking kid back then. If he hadn’t let himself fall that hard for that filthy, ill-mannered south side thug, he wouldn’t be fucking hurting now. If he’d only just listened to Lip, who told him, again and again, that Mickey wasn’t good for him, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten his tiny stupid heart broken.

Ian keeps tossing and turning, wanting nothing more than a fucking off-switch for his mind which is now beginning to picture Mickey with a fucking _ wife _ and  _ kids  _ again, an image that just seems to exist to mock Ian and his naivety. 

Nothing helps — not laying still and doing the fucking breathing exercises his shrink showed him; not thinking about anything else, like work or family; and definitely not counting fucking sheep.

Who the fuck came up with that anyway?

It probably doesn’t help that after a couple of hours of laying awake that kind of dull anxiety starts to grow within him again at the fact that he really should be fucking sleeping right now, since he has a damn routine to follow to keep him fucking sane.

Because he can’t afford to go off the fucking rails again. He’s only now regained a little bit of trust from his siblings again—after years of deeming him completely unreliable—and he’s not ready to be batshit Ian again in everyone’s eyes, including his own.

But since when has panic about being unable to sleep helped anyone fall asleep?

Ian’s not sure if he does actually fall asleep at some point, but it definitely doesn’t feel like it when his cursed alarm rings and he wants nothing more than to just throw his damn phone at the wall.

Fuck his life.

While it’s once again good to have a distraction from his painful thoughts and memories, Ian finds himself mostly going through the motions at his job that day. He’s fucking exhausted, and while he notices the worried glances from his colleagues every now and again he tries to ignore them. 

He’s barely slept. He’s allowed to have a shit day.

Though he can’t quite help feeling bad about his own lack of enthusiasm when dealing with patients. That’s not who he wants to be in his job, but today it’s just incredibly hard to conjure up the motivation, when it feels like everything has just gone to shit.

It’s a long fucking day.

When Ian finally gets home after his long shift he’s ready to just go straight to bed and hope that the exhaustion will be enough to knock him out. Although experience tells him it’s not as simple as that.

Ian’s just closed the front door behind him, his mind set on his soft sheets, when Lip comes down the stairs, takes one look at him, and raises his eyebrows.

“Jesus, Ian, you look like shit.”

* * *

_ Ian’s never as happy as when he’s hanging out in the abandoned buildings with Mickey. _

_ They don’t do it every day, since sometimes Ian has to help at home, and sometimes Mickey doesn’t have the time—for whatever reason, he never tells—but most days after their supervisor has dismissed them they sneak off together, grab a couple of drinks or some weed from one of their homes, and make their way, mostly laughing and shoving each other, to the large concrete skeletons that almost feel like home already. _

_ They don’t get drunk or high every time. Sometimes they just throw shit out the windows, or kick stones against the walls. One time Mickey even brings a handgun and they shoot at old beer cans they left there some other night. _

_ That’s Ian’s favorite night because clearly Mickey expects him not to know how to use a fucking gun, and then Ian ends up shooting even better than him. Mickey acts all annoyed about it, but Ian can tell he’s impressed. It’s in his eyes when he looks at Ian afterwards, and Ian wants him to always look at him like that. _

_ That’s also a fucking problem, because Ian can tell he’s falling for the other boy. Hard. _

_ He always thought he had it bad for Kash, but now that he knows Mickey, he’s more and more aware that Kash was just convenient, and nothing more. _

_ Looking at Mickey makes Ian’s stomach feel all funny, makes him actually feel his own fucking heartbeat in his ears, and apparently it also makes him grin like an idiot all the time—or at least that’s what Mickey always tells him. _

_ And for some part, it feels great. It’s great to be in love with your best friend. The constant rush of adrenaline regardless of whatever the fuck you do with them, the giddiness when your legs or arms are touching even slightly, the feeling of  _ what might be…

_ On the other hand it’s really fucking painful, because there’s just so much to lose. Ian fucking aches to put his lips on Mickey’s half the time. They look so soft and inviting he can hardly bear it. But he doesn’t dare, because there’s no way of knowing how Mickey might react. _

_ Sometimes Ian thinks there is something between them, the very something he felt that very first night that Mickey ran after him. He thinks he sees Mickey stealing glances at him, and not innocent glances, but...glances that  _ mean _ something. And then there was this one night, where they both got so very fucking drunk and Ian was sure that Mickey was staring at his lips...sure, for a fraction of a moment, that he was going to kiss him. _

_ But then nothing happened, and Ian was left to wonder whether it was just the alcohol messing with his mind. _

_ He still hasn’t figured that one out. _

_ Anyway. The point is that there’s a very large chance that Ian is getting this shit wrong. That Mickey doesn’t actually like him  _ like that, _ and that if Ian tried...something, Mickey would freak out and never want to talk to him again. _

_ Besides, Ian is very well aware that they’re still in the south side, and that telling, or fucking showing, anyone that you’re gay without knowing whether that person would be cool with it, might actually get you killed, or at least severely beaten up. _

_ He doesn’t think Mickey would hurt him for being gay, but there’s no way to be sure. His dad is, after all, a notorious fag beater, and even though Mickey doesn’t seem to like his father very much, he still works for him, does drug runs every now and again, and other shit he doesn’t even want to talk about. _

_ So, however much Ian wants there to be  _ more _ between them than friendship, he knows he can’t risk it, not yet, not while he’s still so unsure about Mickey’s feelings. Because he can’t lose what they have. He can’t. Mickey’s friendship has become fucking everything to him in the short time that they’ve been hanging out, _

_ He can’t lose it. No fucking way. _

_ And so he just bides his time, watching Mickey for any signs that he might return his feelings, but also just enjoying what they have going on, which is pretty much the best fucking friendship Ian has ever had. _

_ There’s this one night where Ian almost does something really fucking stupid.  _

_ He’s wasted, and high, and for some reason it seems like Mickey isn’t quite keeping up with him. Ian knows he’s ranting about shit, and probably not making a lot of sense, but Mickey doesn’t interrupt him. He just seems extremely amused by the whole situation, actually fucking giggling at all the shit Ian says—and he has no idea what he even talked about a minute earlier. It must have been shit about his family though, because that’s everything he has, apart from Mickey of course, but why the fuck would he tell Mickey about Mickey? _

_ Frank’s always a great source of entertainment. Mickey thinks the fucker is hilarious in a pathetic kind of way, and it’s actually great to laugh about that asshole instead of feeling hurt or fucking neglected or whatever. _

_ But maybe Ian’s also just philosophizing the fuck away about the world and society and shit, or talking about the dreams he used to have, or what the fuck ever is going through his hazy mind. Anyway, it must be fucking entertaining since Mickey can’t stop sniggering, and that in turn makes Ian so fucking  _ happy _ that he just can’t think of anything but how much he wants to kiss the other boy. _

_ Of course, he has no fucking filter right now, but perhaps his survival instinct is still intact in spite of all the weed and alcohol. Because his brain alters the exuberant thought into a less forward sentence.  _

_ “D’you like kissing?” _

_ Ian knows he’s slurring his words, but he also knows Mickey understood him perfectly, because he’s suddenly not giggling anymore, but staring at him as though in fucking shock. _

_ And that’s when Ian’s brain finally fully understands what he just said—and completely without any fucking prompting too. His heart rate picks up, and he feels slightly sick at once, though surely that must be because of the fucking alcohol. _

_ Still, Ian can’t take his eyes off of Mickey’s face, only illuminated by the flickering light of the candle they’ve placed between themselves. It gives Mickey’s features a weird, eerie quality, but it also makes him look even softer than usual. _

_ After a moment of strangely tense quiet, Mickey shrugs, and turns away, his face vanishing in the shadows cast by his arms that are resting on his knees. _

_ “Not really,” he mumbles. “Just fucking wet, man.” _

_ And for some reason that shit is just way too hilarious to Ian’s fucked up brain, and he starts to laugh and finds himself unable to stop until his sides fucking ache, and Mickey keeps playfully kicking his ribs, snorting about Ian’s laughter in turn. _

_ That same night is also the only night that Ian gets so fucking wasted that he ends up vomiting in a fucking bush. And seriously, that shit is bad enough on its own, but of course it doesn’t fucking happen until he’s almost all the way home—right outside his house, in fact. And of fucking course Lip hears him, and comes outside to check on him. _

_ “Yo, man. You okay?” _

_ “Fucking swell.” _

_ It’s sarcastic, of course, and Ian’s kind of proud that he manages that level of sassiness even when he’s still bent over and fucking dry heaving, and generally feeling like absolute shit. _

_ “Right…need anything?” _

_ This time Ian just manages to wave his hand vaguely because he feels another wave of nausea coming, and before he knows it he’s vomiting into the bush again. _

_ “Shit, man,” is Lip’s response. “Let’s get you to the bathroom, all right?” _

_ They go, and the next time Ian pukes it’s into the toilet bowl, which might just be making it worse, because the smell is pretty fucking bad when your face is inches from the fucking water. _

_ Ian can sense Lip patting his back, and when the nausea subsides a little, he sits back on the cool tiles. _

_ He’s fucking exhausted, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt worse. His head is throbbing, and he’s fucking shaking as though only moments away from fucking collapsing. He feels weak. _

_ “I’ll never fucking drink again,” Ian croaks, and his voice sounds raspier than he’s ever heard it before. _

_ Lip snorts. _

_ “Yeah, right. We’ve all been there.” _

_ It’s quiet for a moment, though Ian’s head is still throbbing as though hit with a fucking sledge hammer, and he’s still feeling as though he might faint any moment. At least the nausea has subsided a little for now. _

_ “You been with Mickey?” Lip asks after a minute or so. _

_ Ian hums. He feels simultaneously like floating and as though someone has run him over with a car. All he wants is to curl into a ball right now, and go the fuck to sleep. _

_ It’s been quiet for so long that Ian has almost forgotten that Lip is there when his brother speaks again. _

_ “And he let you get that fucking wasted?” _

_ “Fuck do you mean?” Ian replies, irritably, because Lip’s a dick who knows nothing, especially about Mickey, and also because his head starts hurting even more as he speaks. “He’s not my fucking keeper.” _

_ “No, but...he didn’t even make sure you got home all right, did he? Could have collapsed on the street far from the house, and—” _

_ “Shut up, Lip.” _

_ Ian’s spoken so loud his head now feels like it’s going to fucking split in two, which only makes him angrier. _

_ Fuck Lip and his fucking preconceptions. Fuck him for never giving Mickey a fucking break, or a fucking chance in the first place. _

_ “It was my own fucking decision to get trashed. Mickey didn’t force the fucking booze down my throat. Fuck off and leave him the fuck alone!” _

_ Lip holds up his hands in what is clearly meant to be a placating gesture, but it only pisses Ian off more. _

_ “Just sayin’, man. It’s not like he’s a good fucking—” _

_ “Fuck you, Lip. You don’t know shit.” _

_ It’s clear that Lip is ready to argue by the way he opens his mouth and leans forward but Ian is done. He’s fucking pissed, he feels like shit, and he’s exhausted as hell. There’s no way he’s dealing with Lip’s crap on top of everything. _

_ He gets to his feet, wobbling slightly, as everything in front of his eyes goes black for a moment, but he still slaps Lip’s hand away as his brother tries to steady him. As soon as the room is back in focus, Ian turns around, and stomps away into the boys room where he faceplants right onto his bed, burying his face in his pillows so he won’t have to see Lip again. _

_ Ian’s head throbs worse than ever, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up again. The floating sensation is coming back, and it feels like the world around him is spinning—the dots in front of his eyes definitely are. _

_ Still, Ian doesn’t open his eyes or turn his head. He thinks he hears Lip enter the room and climb into his own bed, but thankfully he doesn’t attempt to talk to Ian or touch him in any way. _

_ Lip’s such a fucking dick, and Ian is so fucking pissed at him, but it still hurts that Lip doesn’t fucking  _ understand. _ If Lip just got off his fucking high horse for one moment and considered Mickey as another fucking human being with strengths and weaknesses, maybe he could get how Ian feels, and maybe he’d finally stop constantly painting Mickey as a fucking villain. _

_ Maybe then Ian could finally fucking share his thoughts and feelings with his brother again, like he used to.  _

_ Like he needs to. Because he’s really in over his fucking head when it comes to Mickey by now and he could use some good fucking advice, or at least a willing ear to fucking listen. _

_ Because Ian misses that. He misses being able to just talk to his brother without feeling like a complete idiot.  _

_ It’s not even like they’re not getting along anymore. It’ll probably take them a day at the most to start acting as though nothing happened between them, be fucking friends again or whatever. _

_ But that doesn’t mean there isn’t this massive silent disagreement between them, Lip silently judging Ian for hanging out with Mickey, Ian silently hating that Lip doesn’t understand or support him. _

_ It feels like gaining a new friend in Mickey means Ian is alienating his old best friend, Lip, and he hates that. Why can’t he just have both? _

_ It’s that thought that finally carries Ian off into a restless, fitful sleep, riddled with weird dreams about being kept prisoner in a strange circular room, where everything he wants and desires is just out of reach. _

* * *

“Fuck’s going on, man?”

It’s Lip’s don’t-even-try-lying-to-me voice, and still Ian attempts to brush him off, more out of habit than anything.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

The response comes so fast it’s pretty clear Lip already knew what Ian was going to say. Apparently he’s just that predictable.

Somewhere in Ian’s mind he’s still well aware that talking about it might help, might put things into perspective or whatever, but he has no idea whether he really wants to, and if he does, where the fuck to start, and so he just slumps down on their worn-down couch, rubbing his eyes.

Lip sits down next to him, leaning back into the soft cushions, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face.

“Seriously, man. You look like you’re sick or something. What’s going on?”

And there’s that excuse, ready-made. He could just say he’s actually sick, and Lip would probably leave him alone. Ian considers that possibility for a moment, but then, to his own surprise, he finds himself answering honestly.

“Yeah, I didn’t fucking sleep last night.”

Of course the expression on Lip’s face instantly morphs from one of mild concern into one of pure alarm.

“You couldn’t sleep? But that’s...I mean, you’re not…”

Should have seen that one coming.

“I’m not manic,” Ian says quickly, and when Lip’s face doesn’t immediately relax, he repeats, in an emphatic and calm tone. “I’m not fucking manic, Lip.” 

It’s only been one fucking night for Chrissakes; the panic in his brother’s eyes is actually a tad annoying, especially considering how self-aware Ian is with managing his mental health.

Lip doesn’t say anything for a moment, clearly contemplating his next move.

Ian decides he’d rather put a stop to it fucking now.

“Honestly, I’m not. When I’m manic I don’t even feel or look fucking tired, do I? Now all I want is to go to bed. And I didn’t not sleep because I was out doing some shit or something. I was in bed all night, I just couldn’t fucking sleep. So… drop that, all right?” 

After another moment of silence, Lip nods.

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

Ian releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Lip fucking believes him. That’s a first.

“Still,” Lip continues then, and Ian senses himself immediately tensing up again. “That shit can’t be good for you. Not sleeping...You know you need your routine, man. And you need enough sleep. Do you have a plan for that?”

Now Ian can’t even be mad because he’s had those exact thoughts already. If things don’t go back to normal within the next couple of nights, he definitely  _ should _ do something about the not-sleeping. He can’t really afford to stay awake for nights at a stretch, not like he used to. And if it doesn’t get any fucking better soon, he’ll have to check in with his shrink before the not-sleeping becomes a fucking pattern. But he already knew that before Lip mentioned it, so it’s not that big of a deal, really.

“Yeah, I know. I was gonna call her anyway if shit didn’t get any better the next couple of days,” Ian confirms, not missing the relieved look on his brother’s face at those words. “I think she once said something about sleeping pills as a first measure or something,” he suddenly remembers. “Gonna check up on that. Might be a good fucking idea before this gets worse.”

Lip nods encouragingly.

“You do that. Gotta look after yourself, man.”

At that Ian gives his brother a tired smile. However annoying Lip might be sometimes, in the end he does care.

“Might also be a good idea to take the rest of the week off, you know,” Lip goes on. “You honestly look exhausted. Having some time to yourself, you know, sleeping late, all that shit...might do you some good.”

It’s not a bad idea, and if Ian thinks about it, the way his colleagues are already watching him like fucking hawks even though it’s only been one fucking day, they are probably about to report him to the shrink for weird behavior again anyway. Might actually feel good to be one step ahead of them, and show them he’s actually taking care of himself.

And so he nods, and Lip claps him on the back.

“Good. I’m fucking glad, man. And really proud of you too.”

Ian hates himself a little for how desperately he eats up that praise.

They’re quiet for a moment, and Ian closes his eyes and rests his face in his hands as the exhaustion washes over him once again. If only he could sleep, but there’s still this nagging restlessness and agony, fighting for dominance with the tiredness, and it’s hard to see who’s gonna win in the end.

“What’s got you so bothered though?” Lip asks after a while, concern once more creeping into his voice.

“Huh?”

“You. Not sleeping. There’s gotta be a reason. What’s going on?”

Once more Ian hesitates. He’s never sure what to tell Lip these days. He can’t deal with the fucking smugness and the know-it-all attitude, but then again, Lip’s being really helpful right now — supportive,even — and it’s not like Ian has anything to lose now. It’s whatever. Fuck it all.

Only, where to start?

“Mickey,” is what Ian says in the end, because that’s it really. That is what’s going on with him.

And he looks up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, which makes him remember that that’s something that Mickey used to do when he was upset and didn’t want to show it and—

Fuck. Mickey is everywhere. How is Ian ever supposed to push him away again? Clean his fucking thoughts of that image of black hair and blue eyes and soft lips. How?

“Mickey...  _ what?” _ Lip asks, and a short glance in his brother’s direction tells Ian that his concern is slowly being replaced by poorly concealed anger.

It makes Ian pause again, makes him wonder once more whether Lip is the right person to talk to about this, but Lip doesn’t give him a chance to retreat anyway.

“The fuck did Mickey do, Ian?”

Lip’s voice is no longer quiet, but almost harsh, urgent. And when Ian doesn’t immediately respond, he pushes further.

“He turn up at your work again? Say some shit? You can’t listen to that asshole, Ian. He’s not worth your—”

“He didn’t do anything, OK?” Ian interrupts his brother quickly.

He can sense the stupid heat creep up his neck already, a goddamn blush forming, making him look like an idiot when he wants to be taken seriously.

Lip raises his eyebrows in an annoyingly challenging way, clearly not believing a word.

It’s fucking frustrating but Ian feels the need to fucking  _ defend _ Mickey now, even though he was just about to whine about his heartbreak.

“He didn’t do anything,” he repeats, in a calmer voice this time. “I guess I…”

Ian bites his lip. He can already imagine all the smugness raining down on him in a moment. The  _ I told you so _ is pretty much already palpable in the fucking air between them.

“You what?” Lip asks after a moment, his eyebrows still raised.

“I went to see him,” Ian says hesitantly.

He pauses for a moment, to give Lip the chance to curse him out, tell him what a fucking idiot he’s been, but nothing happens. Lip just keeps staring at him, clearly waiting for him to go on.

“I got his work address from the hospital—” Ian quickly glances at his brother, looking for a judgmental look, but Lip doesn’t even blink. “—well, and I guess I went there to talk to him. Yesterday morning,” he adds in explanation.

Lip nods slowly.

“Fuck did he say?”

Ian rubs his eyes again, the mental and physical exhaustion paired with the fucking restlessness getting the better of him once again. He just wants to fucking curl into a ball and sleep for fucking days.

“Nothing,” he croaks, and he can hear rather than feel the tears welling up. “He wasn’t there.”

Lip just looks confused now, and so Ian goes on.

“I just talked to his colleague, and he—” He has to swallow down this big fucking lump in his throat now, that definitely wasn’t there only a moment before. “He just mentioned some...stuff.”

Ian can’t even bring himself to repeat it. It just feels so fucking...fake. Like it can’t possibly be true, because how could life just turn out so...wrong. He’s not sure whether it’s because of his lack of sleep, but he can’t wrap his fucking mind around the fact that Mickey is...that Mickey has…

Ian jumps slightly when something touches his arm. He’d almost forgotten his brother was there for a moment, but now there’s a reassuring touch on his forearm, and when Lip speaks, his voice is softer than it’s been before.

“Ian...what happened?”

And Ian hates being babied, hates having other people take care of him, and yet it somehow feels...good to know that Lip is not judging him for now, but actually seems genuinely interested in knowing how shit went down. And concerned maybe, but definitely not smug or anything, so maybe this’ll work.

“Mickey’s got a family,” Ian says quickly, as though it might hurt less when spoken at a speed, much like ripping off a band-aid.

When Lip doesn’t say anything for a moment, Ian properly looks at his brother for the first time in a while. He’s biting his lip, a sympathetic expression on his face, but not the same kind of shock Ian felt when he first heard it. In fact, he doesn’t look surprised at all, mostly sad, and a little angry perhaps.

“You’re not surprised,” Ian hears himself say tonelessly. 

It’s not a question, and Lip just sighs deeply.

“Nah, man,” Lip says after a moment, and now there’s definitely fucking  _ pity _ in his eyes. “Mickey’s a fucking coward. We both knew that already.”

Ian opens his mouth to argue, because he didn’t fucking  _ know _ that. In fact, he knows that Mickey has lived a tough life which made him a tough fucking guy. He knows how fucking scary Terry Milkovich was, and probably still is. Knows that being scared of Terry—hell, being scared of coming out as a gay man in the fucking south side in general—does not make you a coward. And yet, he always thought Mickey had it in him to overcome all that, break free and be himself. Even after everything went down, and Mickey broke his stupid fucking teenage heart, Ian still couldn’t help but believe that somehow, some day, Mickey would find a way to escape the shackles of his upbringing.

But then the encounter with Mickey’s colleague creeps back to the forefront of Ian’s mind, and he feels himself physically deflating.

He got Mickey wrong. After everything that happened, Mickey still allowed himself to be locked into a fake marriage. Or maybe not even fake. Maybe he’s even fucking happy. Who the fuck knows.

And who is Ian even to judge. He doesn’t know fucking anything. Except that Mickey is taken, and living a life in which there’s no space for Ian.

The lump in his throat has become so large, Ian finds himself unable to speak, and so all he does is shake his head defeatedly.

Lip’s hand squeezes his forearm, and Ian manages a weak smile at his brother.

“Guess now at least you know,” Lip says after a moment’s pause.

Ian doesn’t reply. He has no idea what to say to that. Perhaps Lip is right.

“I mean,” Lip continues thoughtfully. “I know this shit must hurt—I really do—but maybe this is the closure you need, right? Maybe you can move on now.”

All Ian can do is shrug.

“Forget that asshole, you know. Bet there’s a guy out there who’s out and proud, and who’s actually worth your fucking time, unlike that fucking pussy.”

Still, Ian doesn’t respond. The slight against Mickey makes his heart race, makes him want to jump up and run the fuck away despite his tiredness, and yet he’s not even sure why he feels like that. Mickey probably wouldn’t even give a fuck if Ian defended him or not.

When Ian doesn’t say anything for another few minutes, Lip speaks again.

“You owe him nothing, Ian. The only person you should be thinking about is yourself. And that means taking some time off work to get some fucking rest. You hear me?”

Yes, Ian hears him. He hears him clear as day. But even though his brain is ready to see the benefit of doing just that, his heart is not quite there yet.


End file.
